beingdifferent | 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.]

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[Wagner he thinks, at some point before it all comes to a head. He's far from uncultured, though he knows some think him as nothing more than a hitman. He's a double-oh: he's a hitman with class. The thought makes the corner of his mouth twitch up.

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.]

Eighth little lie ♰ There's a dance in the garden in the middle of the night

spam;