Out of the left speaker column he blasts 5/4 time. Out of the right 12/10. The nanite snowfall bends to his will, bullied by the bass and stirred with the treble. He can hear the dancers gasp in wonder at his creation, but he still doesn’t open his eyes.

The nanites want this. They crave structure and he gives it to them. They start relaying information back to help him, but he doesn’t need it. A whitewashed tornado spins on the floor, an miracle of information and rhythm. The dancers take turns writhing in it.

The nanites are in heaven, collecting data the likes of which they’ve never seen. If only there was somewhere to send it.

The leader takes pity on them. He knows crowd info-harvesting is illegal now, but he downloads the info anyway. This will be the last snowfall in this place that can talk back and he wants to hear everything it has to say.

Before long the tornado stops transmitting. Now it’s just sugar snow and the leader lets the discotheque fall silent. Deafening. Respectful. He likes it.