I wonder whose idea it was to make it a tradition to invite famous sopranos to the concert in celebration of what is generally considered our most important public holiday.
This means some people like town council members will attend just to be seen and I don't think listening to sopranos hitting the high notes is their idea of fun.
Though now that I've written that down, I wonder if that was the point. Our mayor is originally an artist; the town cultural event organizer has a lot of influence (she got the second most votes in the last elections).
And at the last concert I saw this opposition member who questioned the need for a museum during the last town council meeting and my first idea was that I hope that he suffers in his first row seat.
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[random drabble to get you through the day]
“I was able to hack her stuff pretty easily.”
“That didn’t take long.”
Riley sends Mac a look. “I’m sorry, have we met? Riley Davis, hacker extraordinaire.”
Rolling his eyes, Mac replies, “You know what I mean. What’d you find?”
“The usual. For a double or triple or quadruple—or whatever type of agent she is—Nikki doesn’t encrypt her files as much as she should. I’ve already sent the juicy stuff to Patty.”
“Nice.” Giving a nod, Mac pulls a spare wheeled chair toward Riley’s desk and sits down. “What’re you doing now, then?”
“Oh, just having some fun.”
“Should I ask?”
“Probably not, but I’ll tell you anyway.”
With a poorly contained smile, Mac says, “Go for it.”
“After getting the goods out of her laptop, I hacked into her phone. Weakest wifi password in the history of ever, by the way.”
“Noted.”
“And she’s been listening to Spotify for the past three or so hours, so if I were to guess, she’s probably doing some other task while listening to music in the background.”
Mac gives another nod, still not exactly sure where this is going.
“So, like I said, I decided to have a little fun, and I wrote up some quick code this morning before you and Jack got here.”
“Code for what?”
“Basically,” Riley starts, “I made it so randomly in the middle of her songs, Spotify will pause itself.”
“Is that… it?”
“Yep.”
“Riley, what the fuck?”
Turning her head away from the monitor, she looks at Mac. “What, I can’t have some fun? When I wasn’t doing hacktivist stuff, this is basically all I’d do.”
A stuttered laugh escapes Mac before he can stop it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this side of you.”
“She’s been dormant for a while,” Riley confirms, “but I think it’s time I bring that part of me back.”
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Yep, looks like this is happening. Here’s the first segment of the uh. 17 pages and counting I’ve written going ‘I can make this better worse’ about I Was A Teenage Exocolonist.
[cut]
They wonder, sometimes, if the augment was a response to their nightmares.
They’ve always had them. When they sleep, they remember things that haven’t happened yet, awful things, things that left scars on a psyche significantly more well-equipped to handle them than that of a toddler.
They’re not a toddler anymore. The dreams - the memories - have only gotten worse.
They can’t talk about it. They tried a few times as a little kid. They tried, only to be told they were just dreams. That alone probably wouldn’t have stopped them; what did was the creeping certainty that if they didn’t stop, the adults would decide there was something wrong with them, something that needed fixing.
At eight, they haven’t tried in years. They know that if they’re too strange, the adults will try to fix them, and it would mean everything went wrong again. The dreams aren’t a problem; they’re a warning.
They don’t need to be fixed. Sol doesn’t need to be fixed. What they need is to fix the shields. Which they can’t do until they understand what’s going to go wrong.
They sit on the floor with the engineering manuals they used to demand to be read instead of storybooks and stare at the diagrams, trying to force their developing brain to grasp concepts that were challenging as a teenager, frustrated enough to cry.
They do cry, tears welling up and sliding down their face, but they don’t sob. They don’t make a sound, tucked away in a corner, and that means no one notices. No one but Congruence, but they changed their privacy settings off the infant alerts as soon as they could speak. No one noticed that, either.
The temperament augment doesn’t keep them from feeling desperation or despair or fear, but it means they deal with what’s troubling them quietly, in a way that doesn’t trouble anyone else. So they cry quietly through eyes they don’t let waver from the diagrams, repeating mathematical formulae in their head, making sure they have them memorized.
This time, it’s going to be different.
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