Esther Coleman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beingdifferent) wrote2013-11-09 04:26 am
beingdifferent) wrote2013-11-09 04:26 am
Eighth little lie ♰ There's a dance in the garden in the middle of the night
[AUDIO]
[Congratulations, Barge, this morning you get something besides a regular voice broadcast. Today, you get music, the flowing notes of a recital played on the art room piano. The player is very competent, making only the most minor of mistakes - two missed notes, both of which stick in her memory like red flags to be noted the next time she plays. The piece itself is played from adagio to presto in different parts, lasting nearly six minutes, and when it's finished there's a heavy, exhausted yet satisfied sigh.]
That was Chopin's "Fantasie" Impromptu in c-sharp minor. I hope you liked it, it's taken me some time! But after how difficult it's been recently I thought some of you might appreciate it. [Plus she's very pleased with herself; you can hear the quiet pride in her voice.] I've been working on it for awhile, but now that I've learnt it I need a new piece to study. Can anyone think of a good one?
Not too difficult, please. There are some that I just can't play yet.
[SPAM]
[Esther is everywhere and nowhere lately, creeping through the ship like the proverbial mouse. After the other Barge she just doesn't want to face the people she was close to there, but it's a small ship and she can't avoid everyone forever no matter how awkward or saddening the meeting might be.
And she has to approach others for some things: to be let into the CES to chase leaves and roll in the grass, to give her time and supplies in the art room, to take her shift in the kitchen. For all these encounters she wears her bravest face and puts her best foot forward, praying that nothing gets too awkward.]
[Congratulations, Barge, this morning you get something besides a regular voice broadcast. Today, you get music, the flowing notes of a recital played on the art room piano. The player is very competent, making only the most minor of mistakes - two missed notes, both of which stick in her memory like red flags to be noted the next time she plays. The piece itself is played from adagio to presto in different parts, lasting nearly six minutes, and when it's finished there's a heavy, exhausted yet satisfied sigh.]
That was Chopin's "Fantasie" Impromptu in c-sharp minor. I hope you liked it, it's taken me some time! But after how difficult it's been recently I thought some of you might appreciate it. [Plus she's very pleased with herself; you can hear the quiet pride in her voice.] I've been working on it for awhile, but now that I've learnt it I need a new piece to study. Can anyone think of a good one?
Not too difficult, please. There are some that I just can't play yet.
[SPAM]
[Esther is everywhere and nowhere lately, creeping through the ship like the proverbial mouse. After the other Barge she just doesn't want to face the people she was close to there, but it's a small ship and she can't avoid everyone forever no matter how awkward or saddening the meeting might be.
And she has to approach others for some things: to be let into the CES to chase leaves and roll in the grass, to give her time and supplies in the art room, to take her shift in the kitchen. For all these encounters she wears her bravest face and puts her best foot forward, praying that nothing gets too awkward.]
[CES spam]
They wag their tails and thrust welcoming noses forward when they see Esther.]
'Ey sweetheart. Did you want to go in first or take a chance with whatever landscape it gives me?
[CES spam]
And there are dogs, which makes the equation that much more enjoyable. She holds her gloved hands out in small fists for Elvis and Solace to sniff then tentatively strokes their ears.]
It likes to give you strange places, doesn't it?
Re: [CES spam]
For her part, Iris knows there's an equally dangerous side to Esther; she doesn't suffer from the human perception that a child can't be vicious, calculating and violent. But nor is that a barrier to Iris liking her: Esther is intelligent and curious and good company. Iris counts her a friend, and that is genuine - if complicated.
The dogs simply adore her uncomplicatedly, as they adore pretty much everyone.]
It takes places from your memories: I've been a lot of places that aren't Earth. Depends if you're in the mood for novelty or nostalgia, basically. The lads won't mind whatever; it's not a little bare backyard so it's all an improvement.
[CES spam]
So like a small girl she smiles down at the dogs and pets them in earnest when their tails begin wagging, giggling as Solace moves in closer to try for a kiss.]
Let's go somewhere you know! Maybe with trees. That would be nice, I think they would like that too.
[CES spam]
The dogs race forwards, chasing each other through the shallow pools, and the air is full of what might be birdsong; however, when they pass close to what looks like a clump of tree-tall stemmed bromeliads, the bright-coloured songsters that startle out of it are small batwinged frogs.]
...Well, sort of trees. I don't remember the name. There are people in the real one; live in 'ouses on stilts above the marshes.
[CES spam]
She moves up to the plant recently vacated by the frog creatures, its smell somehow moldy and lemony at the same time (in stark contrast to its bright fuchsia petals). Inside a small fish-like insect swirls around the filaments on fanning fins.]
You've been here and you don't remember the name?
[CES spam]
There was a war on. Place looks a lot better without the burning buildings and the battle droids. I were carting refugees out of the war zone. They're good people. Big on flute playing.
[CES spam]
What did their music sound like?
[CES spam]
Same reasons people fight anywhere. Someone's got summat and someone else wants to take it. Usually boils down to that.
Bit like a cross between a panpipe and a didgeridoo. Very breathy. They 'ave inflatable throat pouches, so they can 'old their breaths a long time.
[CES spam]
What did these people look like? Do you remember what they were called?
[CES spam]
[The dogs, having chased each other through the sunsoaked gleaming marshes for long enough, decide unanimously that it's ball throwing time, and there's a brief interruption while Iris fishes tennis balls out of her pockets.]
...those two're going to need a bath after this lot. They 'ad beautiful skins. The Ranidians. Covered in patterns and colours. And a bit poisonous if you 'appen to be a mammal, but those are rare 'ere. I 'ad to wear gloves a lot.
[CES spam]
CES
His eyes fix on Esther, and he thinks, as he has more than once, there is more here than I'm seeing. ]
The piano was beautiful.
Do you want to go in?
CES
When Zane approaches she lights up and bounds forward with her bag bouncing against her knees, eyes on Dani the whole time.]
Oh, you've dressed her! How sweet! May I pet her?
Thank you. I would love to go in.
no subject
[ He opens the door with a token around his neck, a piece of stone. ]
You first.
[ Because he doesn't want the environment to turn to ash and smoke, red sky and grey ground. It's not as lovely as green things, and the grey wouldn't be good for Dani anyhow. ]
no subject
Thank you [she says again, and pushes at the door. It opens on a snowy loping hillside, alder trees all around, some with a few brown leaves still clinging to the barren branches. The hill evens out in a little depression, the foot dipping into a small pond, mostly frozen over.]
This is where I used to live. My house was right over there.
no subject
Did you like it here?
[ Ordinarily, he might treat her with a little more suspicion. But something has made him pliant and more gentle; he is sympathetic, and he is not as cautious as he might be. ]
I didn't like where I grew up.
no subject
[Esther slowly moves in closer to Dani, trying to disturb as little snow as possible as the rabbit begins to explore her environment.]
What was it like where you lived?
no subject
no subject
no subject
Do you know what a bastard is?
[ He says it matter-of-factly. Children sometimes know a great deal more than adults think they do. ]
[ Audio ]
I was unaware there was anyone else that played on board the ship.
[ Audio ]
On the contrary! Are you the other pianist on board?
[ Audio ]
He notes the mistakes. He notes, also, the extremely high level of competence.]
I would not call myself a pianist. I am working diligently to improve my own proficiency towards something close to what you have just displayed, but I am still learning. My progress is not as exponential as it could be.
How long have you been playing?
no subject
Who's Chopin? And what about Three Days Grace?
no subject
[She points to the face with a furrowed brow.] And who is that?
no subject
[He looks down at his project.] It's supposed to be Jesse.
no subject
[This is both a lie and a truth; from an objective perspective it is lovely, but Mal isn't fond of piano. Or classical. At the same time, she can appreciate the fact that Esther's worked hard on this. It's really a mixed bag.]
I'm afraid most of the pieces I'm familiar with are for organ, which we thankfully do not have here.
no subject
[She's surprised Mal is replying to her. After the flood Esther assumed she'd want nothing to do with her, but Mal's a curious sort of person who's not easily disturbed.
She needs to find out more.]
I think one of the men here plays the organ, but as far as I know it's in a private room. Why don't you like organ music?
no subject
[And: Mal is bored.]
I find it pretentious. Then again, I'm deliberately uncultured in order to annoy people. [Is it a joke? Maybe.] Who taught you?
spam;
He's not a man who looks to the past, not for any reason - and he's been avoiding it by drinking more. Better to get pissed than think on the man he was. The man he could have been. It should be easy to dismiss, he knows: James knows who he is, what he is, but that awareness makes it impossible not to acknowledge how he could have been that monster. He views women as disposable pleasures, not meaningful pursuits. Viewed.
It drives him to drink too much, to smoke too much. This is not a place to lose control; it's an hostile environment, and could become a warzone at any moment. He knows this, but knowing doesn't stop him from having one more scotch, one more, one more. If he kept track of a record, he's beaten it tonight.
When he does wander out of the pub, it's empty, the deck is empty, and he knows he's sloshed. He can feel it in the weight of his body, the way he doesn't walk easily. His head swims, and he's glad no one's about to see him. He takes the stairs, reasoning that he'll walk it off before heading back for a shower.
He couldn't say what floor he's on when he hears the music: it drifts in, attracts his attention, and like an old dog following a scent he turns toward it, pushing open the door and leaning a hand on the frame to steady himself.
He stares blearily for a moment at the empty room before stepping inside, eyes casting uncertainly about for the speakers. He can't place the song; it's bothersome.
spam; CW: fire from here on out, violence, murder
She's not ready to give anything up. And although she'll still play it, Bond's glimpsed her trump card.
It's all right, though. She's been watching him too, keeping track of his new habits. His daily visits to the pub, his late nights, a certain sullenness to him; they all indicated a strain on him, a weight he might buckle under. And Esther has always been good at getting men to break.
She steals out of her room late at night with the necessary supplies, hides from anyone still up and wandering the halls, and claims an empty room at the end of Bond's corridor as her murder scene. It's a very simple trap: as bait she sets up the little portable stereo and puts the music on a loop. Then she takes up her weapon (humble, her bathroom nook's towel rod, but still heavy) and her place on the dresser by the door.
For a long time, she sits still in the dark and waits.
Her patience is rewarded with the creak of the door opening, the patter of slightly uneven footsteps, the smell of alcohol and smoke. Her heart beats faster; there is one chance to do this right, or everything fails. As the music swells and Bond steps into the room, no doubt bleary eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness, she jumps at him. The bar arcs out and connects with satisfying force; they both crumple to the ground.
For a moment Esther is frozen from the adrenaline rush, then she's back in action. After making sure Bond is unconscious she pats him down, going through his pockets for anything of use; the lighter he used for the Maledictions is, while expected, a godsend. Then she closes the door and works fast, slicing through the mattress with a piece of broken glass, pulls out the stuffing, scatters it around him. Eventually she pulls the whole mattress on him, ensuring it's still touching the bed frame.
She gathers up her supplies, sets them by the door. Then she upends a bottle of acetone nail polish remover onto the mattress, flicks the lighter on, and touches it to the wet fabric.
The whole thing goes up like a sheet of paper, fire quickly consuming the material and moving onto the frame, the stuffing, Bond's clothes underneath the blaze. Once she's satisfied that the fire will burn hot enough to consume or at least mar him she packs her things back into her bag, tucks the towel rod under her arm, and slips outside. On the off-chance that he wakes up, slipping pennies in the crack between the door and frame ensures it can't just be opened.
Once Esther hits the stairwell she breaks into a run, bounding for the deck. She immediately rushes for the railing, throws the bag and all her murder instruments overboard, and breathes a sigh of relief.
Tonight, she's going to sleep well.]
spam; CW: fire from here on out, violence, murder
She lingers for a while out on the cool deck, avoiding anyone she sees, and then goes inside. A slow path back to her door, and suddenly she stops.
For a second, she doesn't even know why she stopped, why her heart jumped to her throat and started pounding. And then she realizes. Smoke. She can smell it. She spins, and spots it curling out from under a doorway. A closed doorway. Oh, no. ]
Hello? [ She knocks on the door, which is warm. Bad sign. She brushes her fingers cautiously over the doorknob - not burning-hot, just warm to the touch. She twists it, and tugs, but the door won't budge. ] Hello! Anyone in there!
Help! Help, there's a fire! [ She tugs again, but the door won't give. Looks to the hinges - there are coins in there, little copper ones, and she pulls out the knife she smuggled out from the kitchen and slips it into the crack, digging them out. The smell of smoke is sharper, now, and when the last penny falls to the ground, she goes for the handle, wrapping her jumper around her hand, and tugs the door open.
The inside is burning. Not the wildness of a brushfire, but a tight blaze, concentrated at the moment in a tipped over mattress. She coughs, puts her sleeve over her nose and mouth.
There's someone in there. She can see the feet poking out from under the mattress. ]
Help! [ She shouts this again, at the top of her lungs - and then she darts inside, half-crouched, to try to pull the mattress off of the man inside. ]
spam;
Magic Fire. That's the one - then something hard comes down on his head, preceded by a breath, a brush of wind, and then - nothing.
It's foolish, worse, it's obvious. He should have known. He should have checked his blind spots. There are strange, half-dreams: of falling, of water and blood. He can feel the weight of the river close around him, and he's suffocating. Drowning. He doesn't dream of M's voice over his ear piece. He doesn't dream of watching Vesper drown herself. He dreams of weight, pressure, of his ribs breaking, of passing out and being closed in on all sides. He can't breathe.
Take a deep breath. It shifts in that way that is so natural in dreams, that way that you can't detect until recollections from the waking world. Water pressure becomes a different sort, liquid in his lungs becomes something else. The river rushing over his face becomes sweat.
You only get one shot.
His hand clenches around his gun; under the mattress, his fingers twitch, twitch, a silent reaching for wakefulness that he can't quite manage. He rises through the river (the smoke the fire), kicks and strains and hardly moves. He only gets one shot. He has to - make it count.
He's out for a long time: the river holds him under, arms pull him down. If he had any real beliefs beyond the weight of a Walther PPK and the force of a well placed punch, he'd search for a toll for the River Styx. It's for the best he doesn't believe: there would be too many men with neat holes in them, too many women left to die because he didn't care enough to protect them. They would all be waiting for him.
James Bond doesn't reach wakefulness again: he claws, stirs, and as he did six years ago, he accepts fate. He burns, burns, and breathes as deep as the hot weight on his back will allow.
Take a deep breath. You only get one shot. Make it count.]
spam; CW: fire from here on out, violence, murder
His face turns white when he sees the fire. It's too much like when Dad died. He runs into the room and pushes the mattress off but he can't bring himself to touch the man under it.]
Get him out!
spam; CW: fire from here on out, violence, murder
Arriving in media res, as it were, means he has a handful of seconds to assess the situation - Ellie isn't big enough to drag a body ('a body' - this is a human being and he never forgets that, but at the same time that's the way his brain works: in bodies and evidence and clean euphemism too weak not to skew bloody) on her own, although Kevin might be, and someone still has to put out the fire before it can start spreading.
If he gets burned he's not going to feel it (and smoke inhalation presents a more significant problem anyway, in a space that was enclosed this long); there are times when that's a perk. He ducks into the room, more or less weaves around both Ellie and Kevin, and hooks his arms under Bond's to shuffle him - dead weight is exactly what it is - around his shoulders. ]
I got this. [ His voice adjusts; quiet and calm, a strain of urgency bolting the lower register. ] Lemme get 'im somewhere safe, you two see if you can put this out.
spam; CW: fire from here on out, violence, murder
Okay. Put it out. Put it out with what? She doesn't see a big red extinguisher anywhere, and the sink's on the other side of the blaze.
Most of it's on the mattress, though, so - ]
Flip it over! [ The inhale to say this gets her a lungful of smoke, and she's coughing, then, as she moves to help him. If the mattress lands fire-side-down, it might be enough to smother itself. Then there's the frame to worry about. ]
spam; CW: fire from here on out, violence, murder