Rinoa

The world dissolves around you, and fades into blackness; you hear the music first, a throbbing, pounding beat beneath a lighter series of electronic notes. You feel some sort of hard, tiled floor beneath your feet, and then you see swirls of color in the darkness. It takes a few moments before you realize that what you're seeing are strobe lights, reflecting off some kind of theatrical smoke, and the blackness is actually the interior of a dark, crowded club.

People are moving to the rhythm, some better than others; as you watch, a dark and fairly masculine shape detaches itself from the bar and stumbles into the crowd, lost in the mass of bodies. Your eyes adjust slowly, but eventually you can see the letters made of mirrors that arch over the bar, reflecting the lights in dazzling pattern: ARC. It looks expensive and is filled with beautiful young things, like a rich-kid version of Studio 54, and you know that you could never get into a place like this in real life.

The music suddenly changes, an ambient track, and from the mist of the dancefloor emerges a young woman. You recognize her immediately, although her clothing is different, but it's definitely Rinoa Heartilly, your first (and most XXX-rated) video game crush. Beautiful, graceful, her body moves and twists dreamily to the music; the lights run down the wet-looking, glossy black leather of her dress, the hem of which barely fell a quarter of a way down her thigh. The fabric clings to Rinoa's curves in all the right places, and you wonder if she's even wearing a bra. Her strappy heels danced over the floor, her hips shaking, her long dark hair swishing behind her like a comet's tail.

Across the dance-floor, your eyes meet. You could go to her easily, and no-one would see you; she smiles, and your heart - and other things - jumps to attention.