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Painful Symphony 7: They Call It Potterycore
Originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who will teach you something they wouldn’t at the Academy'
They Call It Potterycore
She came around to stand in front of him, hands held out, palms cupped. Zek twitched again, met the coal-dark wells of her irises. Not without relief, he lifted the heavy guitar by its strap, bent awkwardly to get it over his head, and handed it to her. She took it, carried it to the sofa and laid it carefully down beside one of her many flutes.
Then she came back, standing with one arm folded and the other pressing her finger to her lips. "You ever just scream? Like, just shout nonsense until your throat hurts? Or smash stuff?"
Zek realised he was standing at attention, legs stiff with disappointment and misery, shoulders square. He wanted to relax, but what would Fonie say if he suddenly sagged in front of her? Fighting against his own muscles, he shook his head.
"Thought not," she nodded. Then she looked around the room before calling over Zek's shoulder, "Hey Bochaw, do we still have any of those crates of crockery we salvaged that one time on Soalogko?"
CHORD wing acquired almost all of the equipment, instruments and furnishings that made their nest on the PAINFUL SYMPHONY so luxurious by scavenging on worlds evacuated ahead of the SREP advance. Zek still wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that, but he was growing numb to it as his weeks here turned to months. What Fonie intended to do with salvaged crockery in a lesson on collaborative improvisation, though, he had no idea.
"In the loft, I think," was the gruff reply. "Put a sheet down if you're gonna do that in the studio, it's your mess to clean up."
"Yeah, yeah," Fonie threw back, then led Zek from the lounge deeper into the Nest. They went upstairs, to where the bedrooms were, and from there to the hatch in the ceiling of the hall that led up to the storage loft. Fonie poked around in the dark for a few minutes before finding what she was looking for, then ordered Zek back down the ladder to take it from her. The polyboard crate was heavy enough that he staggered under it as she lowered it into his arms. It rattled a series of weighty clonks.
After the crate came a thick, coarse dust-sheet which she threw down flared out, as if trying to trap him in it. He almost fell over stumbling out of the way, and heard Fonie laughing as she came back down the ladder. From there she led him to the studio.
This was the biggest room in the Nest, large enough that the midsized grand piano it housed fit comfortably in one corner. As ever there were more instruments than there were supposed to be lying around on chairs, stands or the floor, waiting to be cleared up the next time someone actually wanted to use the studio for serious recording work. Fonie absolutely did not clear any of them up, just moved a few aside to create an open space of floor.
She laid out the dust-sheet, which was patched and stained with a dozen different colours of paint and varnish. To Zek's mystified look, she returned a teasing smirk. "Don't just stand there, put the box down."
He did so, and Fonie reached out a foot to flip it open with her toe. Inside was a stacked assortment of plates and bowls, most white or dull grey. Zek looked at the box for a moment, then back at Fonie. She raised an eyebrow, and then, when he didn't move, bent down, pulled out a dinner plate, and handed it to him.
From the doorway, Elra said, "If you're going to do that, you should at least close the door, babe." The Wingleader's singsong voice was light with humour. "And let me in on the fun."
As Zek turned to stare at her for a change, Elra stepped into the studio, closed the door firmly behind her, and walked over to join them. She knelt by the box, shifted a few items noisily around, and came up holding a cereal bowl in each hand. Seeing Zek's bafflement, she grinned. "Things they don't teach you at the Conservatory. Fonie explains it better than I do."
Fonie snorted, picking out a plate that matched Zek's. She tapped it against his almost as if in a toast. "Who's explaining anything?" Then, after a quick pause, she screamed and threw her plate on the ground. It shattered on the cloth, fragments bouncing across Zek's slippered toes.
Startled, Zek stepped back. Elra let out a ragged howl that didn't quite have the same edge as Fonie's screech but was somehow the louder for it. Then, one after the other, she cast her bowls down, side-on to the ground so that they, too, shattered. Then the Wingleader and her black-eyed lover looked at Zek.
He turned his face to the plate, studying his dim reflection in its glaze. "I don't-"
"Go on. Let it out, Zek," said Fonie.
"Uh…" he started, then let go of the plate. It fell straight, landed flat, and bounced slightly without breaking, the sound of its impact a clatter against fragmented pottery.
Then she screamed again and onehandedly slung a plate on the ground. Elra followed with the gravy boat, which sent its broken pieces scattering to the edges of the sheet. Zek felt his hands tighten on the edges of the plate he held. Fonie let out another, lower scream, almost like a growl, a raw, throaty sound, and smashed another plate.
Frustration surged in Zek. His arms shook with indecision about whether to break the plate he held – and why? It seemed so wasteful! Elra started to howl again, starting low and rising, her posture hunching as if undergoing some sort of bestial change. She caught Zek's eye and held it as her voice continued to rise.
Then she brought the soup bowl down with a shouted "HYA!" and Zek went with her, their pieces crashing into each other as they hit the ground, shards flying everywhere. Hungrily, greedily, Zek pounced on the crate and came up with a handful of dishes. As he stood, he hesitated, self-consciousness reasserted for a second, but Fonie snatched something from his grasp and yelled at him, and he yelled back, and crash went another round of pottery.
Rhythm emerged from the fury, turn-taking and something like a harmony in screaming, and before long their feet were buried in a layer of tableware detritus. Panting, Zek stopped. Elra started to laugh, and Zek looked at her, and laughed too, and then Fonie clapped him on the shoulder, and leaned over to kiss Elra, and even she was laughing.
"What… was that?" Zek managed as his breath started to return.
"Music," said Fonie, as if it should have been obvious. "Remember, Phonistry doesn't care whether your music is correct or approved or even sounds good. It's about feeling it, it's about how you connect with us through sound. That's what makes the robots go."
Elra, her arm now tucked comfortably around Fonie's back, laughed again, gently, at Zek's speechless gaping. "Don't fret so much, Zek. You'll get used to it. You should have seen the mess I made trying to get this into Fonie's head back in the- ow!" She cut off with a squeak as Fonie dug her under the ribcage with a finger.
Grinning, Fonie finished, "Music is the thing that makes your body move, not the other way round. If that means smashing plates and screaming, well, that's music. Somewhere out there is an audience that'll pay to hear it, even, not that that matters for us."
They Call It Potterycore
Zek tripped over his fingers on the fretboard of the bass again, lost the groove of the beat Fonie was playing on the drums, and stumbled to a halt. Cheeks burning, he looked down, avoiding her eyes, pinned in place by the knowledge that Sganch and Bochaw were in the kitchen behind him, hearing all of this. He was already mumbling another apology by the time Fonie stopped playing.
He could feel the look she gave him, flinched at the sound as she set down her sticks and stood up. The tone of her voice surprised him, though, gentler and cheerier than he was used to from other times he'd disappointed her. "Okay, change of approach."
He could feel the look she gave him, flinched at the sound as she set down her sticks and stood up. The tone of her voice surprised him, though, gentler and cheerier than he was used to from other times he'd disappointed her. "Okay, change of approach."
She came around to stand in front of him, hands held out, palms cupped. Zek twitched again, met the coal-dark wells of her irises. Not without relief, he lifted the heavy guitar by its strap, bent awkwardly to get it over his head, and handed it to her. She took it, carried it to the sofa and laid it carefully down beside one of her many flutes.
Then she came back, standing with one arm folded and the other pressing her finger to her lips. "You ever just scream? Like, just shout nonsense until your throat hurts? Or smash stuff?"
Zek realised he was standing at attention, legs stiff with disappointment and misery, shoulders square. He wanted to relax, but what would Fonie say if he suddenly sagged in front of her? Fighting against his own muscles, he shook his head.
"Thought not," she nodded. Then she looked around the room before calling over Zek's shoulder, "Hey Bochaw, do we still have any of those crates of crockery we salvaged that one time on Soalogko?"
CHORD wing acquired almost all of the equipment, instruments and furnishings that made their nest on the PAINFUL SYMPHONY so luxurious by scavenging on worlds evacuated ahead of the SREP advance. Zek still wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that, but he was growing numb to it as his weeks here turned to months. What Fonie intended to do with salvaged crockery in a lesson on collaborative improvisation, though, he had no idea.
"In the loft, I think," was the gruff reply. "Put a sheet down if you're gonna do that in the studio, it's your mess to clean up."
"Yeah, yeah," Fonie threw back, then led Zek from the lounge deeper into the Nest. They went upstairs, to where the bedrooms were, and from there to the hatch in the ceiling of the hall that led up to the storage loft. Fonie poked around in the dark for a few minutes before finding what she was looking for, then ordered Zek back down the ladder to take it from her. The polyboard crate was heavy enough that he staggered under it as she lowered it into his arms. It rattled a series of weighty clonks.
After the crate came a thick, coarse dust-sheet which she threw down flared out, as if trying to trap him in it. He almost fell over stumbling out of the way, and heard Fonie laughing as she came back down the ladder. From there she led him to the studio.
This was the biggest room in the Nest, large enough that the midsized grand piano it housed fit comfortably in one corner. As ever there were more instruments than there were supposed to be lying around on chairs, stands or the floor, waiting to be cleared up the next time someone actually wanted to use the studio for serious recording work. Fonie absolutely did not clear any of them up, just moved a few aside to create an open space of floor.
She laid out the dust-sheet, which was patched and stained with a dozen different colours of paint and varnish. To Zek's mystified look, she returned a teasing smirk. "Don't just stand there, put the box down."
He did so, and Fonie reached out a foot to flip it open with her toe. Inside was a stacked assortment of plates and bowls, most white or dull grey. Zek looked at the box for a moment, then back at Fonie. She raised an eyebrow, and then, when he didn't move, bent down, pulled out a dinner plate, and handed it to him.
From the doorway, Elra said, "If you're going to do that, you should at least close the door, babe." The Wingleader's singsong voice was light with humour. "And let me in on the fun."
As Zek turned to stare at her for a change, Elra stepped into the studio, closed the door firmly behind her, and walked over to join them. She knelt by the box, shifted a few items noisily around, and came up holding a cereal bowl in each hand. Seeing Zek's bafflement, she grinned. "Things they don't teach you at the Conservatory. Fonie explains it better than I do."
Fonie snorted, picking out a plate that matched Zek's. She tapped it against his almost as if in a toast. "Who's explaining anything?" Then, after a quick pause, she screamed and threw her plate on the ground. It shattered on the cloth, fragments bouncing across Zek's slippered toes.
Startled, Zek stepped back. Elra let out a ragged howl that didn't quite have the same edge as Fonie's screech but was somehow the louder for it. Then, one after the other, she cast her bowls down, side-on to the ground so that they, too, shattered. Then the Wingleader and her black-eyed lover looked at Zek.
He turned his face to the plate, studying his dim reflection in its glaze. "I don't-"
"Go on. Let it out, Zek," said Fonie.
"Uh…" he started, then let go of the plate. It fell straight, landed flat, and bounced slightly without breaking, the sound of its impact a clatter against fragmented pottery.
Fonie rolled her eyes. "No, with more oomph than that, come on. Pick it up and try again."
Slowly, Zek knelt, picked up the plate, and stood. "I don't understand."
Then she screamed again and onehandedly slung a plate on the ground. Elra followed with the gravy boat, which sent its broken pieces scattering to the edges of the sheet. Zek felt his hands tighten on the edges of the plate he held. Fonie let out another, lower scream, almost like a growl, a raw, throaty sound, and smashed another plate.
Frustration surged in Zek. His arms shook with indecision about whether to break the plate he held – and why? It seemed so wasteful! Elra started to howl again, starting low and rising, her posture hunching as if undergoing some sort of bestial change. She caught Zek's eye and held it as her voice continued to rise.
Then she brought the soup bowl down with a shouted "HYA!" and Zek went with her, their pieces crashing into each other as they hit the ground, shards flying everywhere. Hungrily, greedily, Zek pounced on the crate and came up with a handful of dishes. As he stood, he hesitated, self-consciousness reasserted for a second, but Fonie snatched something from his grasp and yelled at him, and he yelled back, and crash went another round of pottery.
Rhythm emerged from the fury, turn-taking and something like a harmony in screaming, and before long their feet were buried in a layer of tableware detritus. Panting, Zek stopped. Elra started to laugh, and Zek looked at her, and laughed too, and then Fonie clapped him on the shoulder, and leaned over to kiss Elra, and even she was laughing.
"What… was that?" Zek managed as his breath started to return.
"Music," said Fonie, as if it should have been obvious. "Remember, Phonistry doesn't care whether your music is correct or approved or even sounds good. It's about feeling it, it's about how you connect with us through sound. That's what makes the robots go."
Elra, her arm now tucked comfortably around Fonie's back, laughed again, gently, at Zek's speechless gaping. "Don't fret so much, Zek. You'll get used to it. You should have seen the mess I made trying to get this into Fonie's head back in the- ow!" She cut off with a squeak as Fonie dug her under the ribcage with a finger.
Grinning, Fonie finished, "Music is the thing that makes your body move, not the other way round. If that means smashing plates and screaming, well, that's music. Somewhere out there is an audience that'll pay to hear it, even, not that that matters for us."