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trans_92011-07-29 01:59 am
zouichi.livejournal.com) wrote in trans_92011-07-29 01:59 am
Entry tags:
Back in black
The young woman who had looked after Zouichi and his siblings had taken it upon herself to instruct them in quite a few areas that were not strictly part of their curriculum -- areas regarded by many of the personnel at Toha Heavy Industries as impractical, even pointless.
Better that they should be taught one more way to kill an opponent without a sound, or log additional hours in test simulations.
But because it would have been disruptive and costly to switch instructors halfway, and because she was the daughter of a scientist of some importance to the project, she was allowed to continue with her eccentricities.
Some of the most peculiar of the lessons she insisted upon centered around an old Earth instrument, one that by the 31st century had become more of an amusing anachronism than anything else. Something you saw in old movies or read about in books, not something you kept in your house or paid to go listen to. It wasn't something he had time to practice, once he was released, but there seemed to be nothing but time here.
So Zouichi had found himself visiting the Sensoriums more often, not to destroy imaginary enemies in ever more creative ways, but to play -- mostly when he could reasonably be sure everyone else would be asleep, and therefore unlikely to come look for him. Today, however, he wasn't in the mood to bother waiting for people to turn in. There was one other oddity -- a bandage wrapped neatly about his forehead, half-covered by his bangs.
He shed his customary gloves, placing them on the surface of the polished black wood. Then he closed his eyes, placed his hands over the cool ivory keys, and began to play. Satie's Gymnopédie No. 1, a slow-paced, melancholy piece. He didn't know why, but playing it always made him remember the ocean. Or at least the simulated version of it; he'd never seen the real thing. The quiet ebb and flow of the tide, the breaking of each wave into sea foam upon the shore. The sea at early evening, perhaps, when all its visitors had gone home and the sun cast everything in long shadow.
Then, on a whim, he focused on summoning up an orchestral accompaniment: a crowd of black-clad musicians in which he might more easily blend in. Or maybe hide, if such a thing were possible on an open stage with a stern-faced conductor watching over all of them. For a moment, the musicians were still. Then, together, they began the first movement of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 In C Minor, Op. 18. It was easy, once they began playing, to simply lose himself in the swells of sound. The dreamlike ebb and flow of the violins, the rich, deep murmur of the cellos, the brassy reports of the trumpets, the clear, concise flurry of the flutes. Fascinating, the way the sounds of so many different individuals could come together to create a coherent narrative.
It was too bad he'd never get a chance to play with the real thing.
Better that they should be taught one more way to kill an opponent without a sound, or log additional hours in test simulations.
But because it would have been disruptive and costly to switch instructors halfway, and because she was the daughter of a scientist of some importance to the project, she was allowed to continue with her eccentricities.
Some of the most peculiar of the lessons she insisted upon centered around an old Earth instrument, one that by the 31st century had become more of an amusing anachronism than anything else. Something you saw in old movies or read about in books, not something you kept in your house or paid to go listen to. It wasn't something he had time to practice, once he was released, but there seemed to be nothing but time here.
So Zouichi had found himself visiting the Sensoriums more often, not to destroy imaginary enemies in ever more creative ways, but to play -- mostly when he could reasonably be sure everyone else would be asleep, and therefore unlikely to come look for him. Today, however, he wasn't in the mood to bother waiting for people to turn in. There was one other oddity -- a bandage wrapped neatly about his forehead, half-covered by his bangs.
He shed his customary gloves, placing them on the surface of the polished black wood. Then he closed his eyes, placed his hands over the cool ivory keys, and began to play. Satie's Gymnopédie No. 1, a slow-paced, melancholy piece. He didn't know why, but playing it always made him remember the ocean. Or at least the simulated version of it; he'd never seen the real thing. The quiet ebb and flow of the tide, the breaking of each wave into sea foam upon the shore. The sea at early evening, perhaps, when all its visitors had gone home and the sun cast everything in long shadow.
Then, on a whim, he focused on summoning up an orchestral accompaniment: a crowd of black-clad musicians in which he might more easily blend in. Or maybe hide, if such a thing were possible on an open stage with a stern-faced conductor watching over all of them. For a moment, the musicians were still. Then, together, they began the first movement of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 In C Minor, Op. 18. It was easy, once they began playing, to simply lose himself in the swells of sound. The dreamlike ebb and flow of the violins, the rich, deep murmur of the cellos, the brassy reports of the trumpets, the clear, concise flurry of the flutes. Fascinating, the way the sounds of so many different individuals could come together to create a coherent narrative.
It was too bad he'd never get a chance to play with the real thing.
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"That's, um..." She taps her temple, thinking. "Chopin, is it? I'm so rusty these days."
"...I really ought to get a cat. I'm not sure how I'd like being owned again, though, even by a pet."
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He nodded. "One of his etudes. I thought you were the one who owned your pet, not the other way around. Is that different for cats?"
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He smiled, recalling the time he'd played by one by the riverbank. "They're cute. You should get one. Anyway, how have things been on-ship? Pretty quiet?"
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"Mostly. Another podpop come and gone. Nobody who popped asked about you, so I'll assume you're staying a lone ranger in that regard. Some of Marco's friends arrived, and a relative of Kang."
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"Ah. Well, I don't think most of my allies would have made it. And most of my enemies aren't especially discreet." He paused. "More of those teammates he fought with? He must be happy."
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"Given how she plucks people from different parts of the timeline, for all we know your allies could have made it," she says, but regrets it. Why even bring it up if it may be false hope?
"It's...complicated. Yes, he's happy, and it's good to have them back, but you know that my son's just ribbons and sunshine on any given day."
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Zouichi frowned. "I... would honestly rather that not happen. The dead should be able to rest in peace."
He looked over at her. "And how have you been holding up, then?" Marco's disposition was really nothing new to him. "If you feel the urge to take it out on your garden, maybe I can dig up a punching bag or something for you to kick instead."
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She nods. "Stacy's not very good at that. I've seen more than a few ghosts from my world show up."
Including Iniss and Edriss. Her teeth grit a bit. Including her son. Her heart races a fraction.
She shrugs. "Well enough. Keeping my head low. Tending my garden, a la Voltaire. Don't worry, I already have a punching bag. It just relieves more tension to kill things."
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Zouichi paused a moment in his playing. "Anyone you'd miss?"
"Yeah, I know what you mean. Something about snuffing the lives out of an unfortunate victim really takes the edge off." His tone is so dry, it's hard to tell whether he's joking or not.
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"Tom and Rachel Berenson," she finally says, voice low. "But we'd rather they not learn how dead they were."
Tom knows, or at least highly suspects. Rachel may not. Eva hasn't had the heart to bring it up.
Marco? Marco doesn't know he's as good as dead.
"Well, plants can't really use their last breaths to beg for mercy," she says, equally dry.
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Well, if she had others, she could judge for herself when and where to disclose them.
"This ship seems to enjoy forcing these choices on its crew, doesn't it? Wish for your world to be restored, and the people close to you have to die all over again. Wish that it remains destroyed, and your happiness comes at the price of those who weren't rescued."
"Or if they can," he said of the plants, "You can't understand them. The perfect target for any discerning crewman's animosity. Speaking of which, how is that wisteria doing?"
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She laughs. "Dead. Like half the things I try and care for. I may need to come get another cutting from you, if you're up for giving me another sacrificial lamb."
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"Hey, don't be so hard on yourself. That orchid you gave me came out of the ordeal alive." He nodded. "And sure. There's plenty of plant to go around."
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