Day 39: Music Room

[lady-general.livejournal.com]

Lunch had been fruitful. Celes had chosen not to eat, but that was fine enough for her; she’d eaten plenty at breakfast and it was not very good manners to eat while discussing war (for Celes, it’d always given her a bit of a stomachache), or plotting. Especially if one was in mixed company. Her nurse escorted her to the Music room, citing that her ‘sister’ had suggested that musical therapy would be good for her. Celes rolled her eyes. This was no music room, with their ‘electronic’ instruments; where were the violas and the harpsichords and phonographs? She’d been past this room before, but had never been interested enough to go into it.

The general sat down at the keyboard, staring at the odd device before prodding the buttons with a nail. On, off, rumba, tango, Caribbean (what in the world was ‘Caribbean?’), little numbers that changed the tone. It was the first time Celes wished that there was a real instrument before her, instead of this ridiculous thing. Still, it didn’t stop her from curiously stringing notes together with one hand, and the only song she could bring to mind was the Aria di Mezzo Carattere.

How dreadfully delightful.

[for Adel~]

Comments

[toxicspiderman]

"You couldn't pay me enough to live there. L.A. or the future. Acid rain any day." It wasn't really any better from a public health perspective, but it had better PR.

"They cured cancer?" Really cured it? He'd never have to look in the eyes of another person past the point of no return, assuming he lived that long. "Fuck, I'd be out of a job. How would we convince Joe Public to donate without the Big C hanging over all our heads. Sure, there's lots of reasons to stop pollution, but only teenage girls give up their allowances for baby harp seals." He had just enough social sense not to ask about Infopollen. Something nasty from the future, and either Spider had been hit with it himself, or his misanthropic asshole facade was showing a crack. If it was the latter, S.T. would leave him his dignity. If the former, he didn't feel like getting punched this afternoon.

Better not to risk it. Instead, he went along with the conversational play-action pass. "Old enough to masturbate, not old enough to shave. Fifteen, sixteen? Japanese, I think, though Daedalus sounds like some melting pot got in there. And naah, I was too busy trying to catch him in a lie over the files to shove back." S.T. shrugged.

[(Anonymous)]

Spider cackled and grabbed S.T.'s shoulder. "You shock-jock, heartstring-tugging motherfucker. Half the reason they cured cancer was to stop everyone rusting good electronics with their salty damn tears. It's a genetic trait, anti-cancer. Means I can smoke like a high-rise on fire and not risk shit. Speaking of which, you got a cigarette? Or maybe six?" Spider scratched his head, then stopped when he felt the cord tied around it.

"Oh, you want this back?" he said, pointing to it. "I'm done with it."

[toxicspiderman]

The laugh was contagious. And 'motherfucker', in context, a compliment. He recaptured the headphone cord and tugged. "Yeah. Music's the closest thing they've got to good drugs around here."

"And nope. Might be some cigars with my stuff, might not," he said, shrugging. "If I'm going to screw up my lungs, I'll do it with something that tastes good. And I never inhale." No need to tempt fate, either in the forms of cancer or addiction.

"Genetic? I hope they knew more than we do." Humans like Dolmacher rewriting the genes of E coli were bad enough. The idea of humanity, even the best scientists around, rewiring their own genetic code, was scary shit. His grin was washing onto the rocks and starting to break up. Fuck. Nice buzzkill, Spider.

He slid the headphones back on, the discman still on pause. "I'm in M90. Meet me there when they let us out to play?" He slid the volume down low enough to hear over it, and hit play. He'd need the energy later.

[iwascloned.livejournal.com]

"M90, yeah. I'll bring a pillowcase." Spider gave S.T. a goofy grin, then hopped back over his seat-back, checking for blonds one more time before getting ushered off to bed.