Late Night Dancing Your One and Only Chance (Mantis World) chapter 8 by Froakie

You navigate the treacherous terrain of tangled limbs and despairing bodies, shoving past a man who is rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. You find a relatively empty corner of the glass jar and press your back against the cool, smooth surface. It's a temporary reprieve, a fragile barrier between you and the churning mass of terrified humanity in the center.

Time loses all meaning in this dim, humid prison. Minutes stretch into what feel like hours. The cacophony of sobs, prayers, and furious shouting eventually subsides into a low, simmering murmur of dread. The air grows thicker, heavy with the collective stench of unwashed bodies, acrid fear-sweat, and the ever-present coppery tang of blood that seems to permeate the very glass. A fine red mist coats the lower portions of the jar's interior, a grim reminder of previous occupants who met a more violent end even before reaching the dance floor.

Suddenly, the entire world is violently shaken. The jar rattles on its shelf, and everyone inside is sent sprawling. A deep, rhythmic booming begins to echo from outside—the unmistakable sound of bass-heavy music, muffled by the walls but powerful enough to make your teeth chatter. The main event was starting.

As if on cue, the colossal face of the owner fills your view again, her features warped into a grotesque mask by the curvature of the glass. Her smile is wide and terrible. 

The owner's hand descends, blotting out the light. Her fingers wrap around the jar, and you're lifted once more, the contents sloshing around you. The journey is a nauseating rollercoaster as she carries you through the club. Through the glass, you catch fleeting glimpses of the main room. It's transformed. The air, once merely smelling of cleaner, is now a thick, soupy fog of sweat, spilled liquor, cheap perfume, and the sharp, tangy odor of excited female bodies. Colored lasers slice through the gloom, strobing over a writhing mass of women on the dance floor below. Their laughter and shrieks blend with the thunderous music into a deafening roar of primal energy.

The owner reaches the edge of the wooden tub that encloses the dance floor. She kneels down, her knee hitting the floor with a thud that vibrates through the jar. With a flourish, she twists the lid off. "Ladies!" her voice booms over the music, magically amplified. "Are you ready for the fresh harvest!"

A chorus of cheers erupts from the crowd. She tilts the jar, and gravity takes over. You and the hundreds of other men spill out onto the polished wood of the dance floor in a tidal wave of flesh. The drop is only a few feet, but at your size, it's a terrifying plunge.

You hit the polished wood floor, but your reflexes are razor-sharp. Instead of landing in a painful heap, you tuck and roll, using the momentum of a falling man beside you as a cushion. You spring to your feet, unharmed, amidst the carnage of your fellow inmates. The landing was brutal for them. You hear the wet, sickening crunches of bones breaking and the high-pitched screams of men who landed badly, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles.