"Milena, get off that damn computer. It's not doing you any good."
(MINA SOTO, PREGAME START)
Mina could hear her mother's voice practically any time she sat down in front of a computer for anything other than homework. That included sitting in the computer lab, after school, headphones on, working on her projects.
She typically produced under the guise of homework. It wasn't as if she was forbidden from working on music, but she knew her mother would end up nagging her the more time she spent on it, so she opted to get some work done in the school's computer lab. It was in a fresh environment, anyway. She had everything prerecorded, so she only really needed to mix it.
In truth, she wasn't even working, not yet. She had an AO3 fanfiction of Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross pulled up. She didn't even listen to Panic! At The Disco, but she was locked in. The things she did for her friends.
But that was enough of tolerating the fanfiction. It was time to get down some actual work. She switched windows to GarageBand, clearly the most prestigious of applications. She pressed play on the project, just to take a listen with fresh ears before getting any of the real work done.
To her absolute horror, her headphones must have fallen out of the jack without her even knowing. The computer blasted—at full volume, no less—the song to anyone in the lab. Autotuned vocals, church organ synths, gritty 808s, even the spliced Cynthia Erivo vocals from that one Wicked song: all entirely on display.
She jammed the mute button as fast as she could, but she didn't account for the lagging delay she'd get from the sheer amount of tracks packed into that one file. Maximalist production, her downfall. It took a while five seconds to fully process the command, but the damage was already done as far as she was concerned.
Here was Mina, mortified. She didn't dare to turn around to see if anyone else had been there.
i'm not wearing a shirt it's a shirtless jam
Open, any given school-day afternoon in mid-to-late January
i'm not wearing a shirt it's a shirtless jam
This changes daily sorry
Cordelia's refusal to appease her father, in opposition to her sisters' empty praises, dissssdadsfvsbf ncbv
Buster jumped at the sudden loud noise from the computer beside him, causing his hand to mash against the keyboard in a moment of dumb panic. The explosion of sound, though brief, cut right to Buster's core. It was like a pop singer and the Devil himself both got dropped into a garbage disposal, and their screams mixed with the whirring of the blades as their bodies were minced together into a screeching goo.
If it was music, it was not Buster Johnson's preferred type of music.
Buster always liked to write his essays using the school's computer. He had access to his own computers, of course (he had both a desktop and a laptop, in fact) but the home environment provided too many distractions. He might decide to take a five minute break to check twitter and suddenly find himself at 10 PM with only three sentences typed. Using the computer labs helped deter him from distractions. Usually. It seemed like today was going to be different.
He turned to his left, two stations down the line, where the harshly goth girl was staring at her computer, a mortified expression on her face. Buster could have ignored her, but he habitually wanted to defuse the awkward situation. That was the type of person he was. And she was... Milena, yes? They'd shared a biology class back in the tenth grade. Buster always strove to remember as many of his peers names as he could, even the names of the people he didn't have reason to usually interact with. People tended to respond positively to people who remember their names. It was a little thing that Buster found went a long way. Buster smiled at Milena and chuckled.
"Oh! That caught me by surprise! It's a nice song, though!"
For a second, I thought a goddamn air raid siren was going off.
Buster jumped at the sudden loud noise from the computer beside him, causing his hand to mash against the keyboard in a moment of dumb panic. The explosion of sound, though brief, cut right to Buster's core. It was like a pop singer and the Devil himself both got dropped into a garbage disposal, and their screams mixed with the whirring of the blades as their bodies were minced together into a screeching goo.
If it was music, it was not Buster Johnson's preferred type of music.
Buster always liked to write his essays using the school's computer. He had access to his own computers, of course (he had both a desktop and a laptop, in fact) but the home environment provided too many distractions. He might decide to take a five minute break to check twitter and suddenly find himself at 10 PM with only three sentences typed. Using the computer labs helped deter him from distractions. Usually. It seemed like today was going to be different.
He turned to his left, two stations down the line, where the harshly goth girl was staring at her computer, a mortified expression on her face. Buster could have ignored her, but he habitually wanted to defuse the awkward situation. That was the type of person he was. And she was... Milena, yes? They'd shared a biology class back in the tenth grade. Buster always strove to remember as many of his peers names as he could, even the names of the people he didn't have reason to usually interact with. People tended to respond positively to people who remember their names. It was a little thing that Buster found went a long way. Buster smiled at Milena and chuckled.
"Oh! That caught me by surprise! It's a nice song, though!"
For a second, I thought a goddamn air raid siren was going off.
Mina, at that moment, was ready to bash her head against the desk five or six times, purely out of embarrassment. She had absolutely no sense of the sincerity of the compliment, but either way she hadn't intended for anyone to hear the music, especially not before its final state. Hell, as much as she loves doing what she did, she couldn't put on a song of hers without cringing at it.
It was frankly a lot worse when it was blasted unwillingly to an otherwise silent computer lab. She silently cursed herself out for working on her music in a public environment, or at the very least for getting distracted.
"Thank—" she cleared her throat; she hadn't spoken out loud for a while. "Thank you."
She was still dreadfully embarrassed, willing herself to disintegrate right there and then. They'd probably still be working next to each other in the computer lab for at least half an hour after that, and something about that seemed so uncomfortably awkward that she felt the need to remedy the situation.
"It's just a work in progress, though. Not done."
It was frankly a lot worse when it was blasted unwillingly to an otherwise silent computer lab. She silently cursed herself out for working on her music in a public environment, or at the very least for getting distracted.
"Thank—" she cleared her throat; she hadn't spoken out loud for a while. "Thank you."
She was still dreadfully embarrassed, willing herself to disintegrate right there and then. They'd probably still be working next to each other in the computer lab for at least half an hour after that, and something about that seemed so uncomfortably awkward that she felt the need to remedy the situation.
"It's just a work in progress, though. Not done."
This changes daily sorry
"Oh!" Buster repeated, his face showing an exaggerated but, at its core, genuine expression of surprise. "You... you made that?"
Good God.
The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. If Buster were a better man, he'd jump over to her computer and delete that song before she could release it to the public and thereby enact doomsday. Cities across the world, their streets littered with bodies. Blood flowing from their ears and their dead faces frozen in expressions of terror. Alas, Buster wasn't that good of a man. So instead he'd just make some small talk and hope she would remember to plug in her damn headphones next time.
Buster shifted in his chair to fully face Milena. Leaning forward, legs crossed, hand on his chin. A pose showing clear, undivided attention but not overfamiliarity. Casual without being dismissive.
"That's really impressive. For someone our age to be making art like that. So, did you mix it together from a bunch of different sources, or, a..."
Record yourself torturing a donkey?
"...Record it yourself?"
Wait, did she even remember who he was? How dumb of him not to introduce himself. Even if he never intended to talk to Milena again, he still wanted her to come away with a positive impression.
"Ah, sorry, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Bronson Johnson. My friends call me Buster."
Good God.
The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. If Buster were a better man, he'd jump over to her computer and delete that song before she could release it to the public and thereby enact doomsday. Cities across the world, their streets littered with bodies. Blood flowing from their ears and their dead faces frozen in expressions of terror. Alas, Buster wasn't that good of a man. So instead he'd just make some small talk and hope she would remember to plug in her damn headphones next time.
Buster shifted in his chair to fully face Milena. Leaning forward, legs crossed, hand on his chin. A pose showing clear, undivided attention but not overfamiliarity. Casual without being dismissive.
"That's really impressive. For someone our age to be making art like that. So, did you mix it together from a bunch of different sources, or, a..."
Record yourself torturing a donkey?
"...Record it yourself?"
Wait, did she even remember who he was? How dumb of him not to introduce himself. Even if he never intended to talk to Milena again, he still wanted her to come away with a positive impression.
"Ah, sorry, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Bronson Johnson. My friends call me Buster."
Yeah, she made that.
"Um, Mina," she said, trying her absolute hardest not to stumble on her words. "That's my name."
Not Milena, because she got rid of that name when she was, like, eleven or twelve. Sure, her teachers outed it every class in the beginning of the year, which eliminated all her cool mystique or whatever, but she always got to correcting them anyway. But no, she was Mina, aka Mina Harker, aka wife of Jon Harker (who she fiercely headcanoned as a butch lesbian, but that was unequivocally not a discussion point for the present).
She strategically avoided eye contact whenever possible. Yes, Buster had been complimenting her music, but she didn't love direct conversation with complete strangers, especially on the topic of her art forms.
That was, also, assuming his compliments were genuine, which her lack of an ability to discern tone did not help at all. He could have just been saying that, because she knew firsthand that her music was not for the mainstream audience (or, like, most people who actually enjoyed melodic sounds).
"It's— it's a form of art," she clarified. "Like, it's supposed to sound like that "
Damage control: done! Mission: successful, with an asterisk and a wavy, uncertain font.
"Um, Mina," she said, trying her absolute hardest not to stumble on her words. "That's my name."
Not Milena, because she got rid of that name when she was, like, eleven or twelve. Sure, her teachers outed it every class in the beginning of the year, which eliminated all her cool mystique or whatever, but she always got to correcting them anyway. But no, she was Mina, aka Mina Harker, aka wife of Jon Harker (who she fiercely headcanoned as a butch lesbian, but that was unequivocally not a discussion point for the present).
She strategically avoided eye contact whenever possible. Yes, Buster had been complimenting her music, but she didn't love direct conversation with complete strangers, especially on the topic of her art forms.
That was, also, assuming his compliments were genuine, which her lack of an ability to discern tone did not help at all. He could have just been saying that, because she knew firsthand that her music was not for the mainstream audience (or, like, most people who actually enjoyed melodic sounds).
"It's— it's a form of art," she clarified. "Like, it's supposed to sound like that "
Damage control: done! Mission: successful, with an asterisk and a wavy, uncertain font.
This changes daily sorry