Various
Lessee. "Reboot" started yesterday. For those who know my shorthand, well, you know. Bah.

Kid was very cute. Woke up as I got out of bed, I asked her to stay there till I got back from the bathroom, and when I got back she was snugged up against her daddy's back, asleep. Awwwwwwwww.

Now, an attempt at a ficlet that I just thought of.



The Seneschal wasn't in his office. Didn't even seem to be in the Tether, for that matter. And it wasn't like a Seneschal -- wasn't like any demon, but Seneschals proved their worth to get their positions -- to keep a Prince waiting.

The Tether was dark -- dark of the night, of course, and some clever DJ had left a recording to go all night with the songs played, instead of being there personally.

So he flipped an instantiation down to the Hearts, standing there in the DJ's room, listening to the music and tapping a foot idly to the beat. Catchy, popular stuff -- okay, most of it was popular last week, or even last month, but not bad for the 2am crowd. In Hell, he strode past bowing sycophants and got to the Heart. He picked it up (*taptaptap* maybe a remake would catch some attention? make a note) and did not wince against the stinging. But when he looked into its dimflickering depths, there was nothing but darkness. No sense of the location.

And on Earth, he scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets, thinking. Right. Some other Superior had the Seneschal and was shielding it. Interrogation, betrayal, redemption (betrayal of the highest sort), or assignation -- no telling.

And he'd have to waste his personal time to go sort it out. Bah. He reached out and turned off the music.

It didn't turn off.

Oooookay. He turned off the outgoing feed, too, and nevermind that the phones might light up with a few peeved 2am calls.

The song, in defiance of the recording that was still and silent, continued. Ended. Another began.

His own Soundtrack echoed it, providing the ultimate in surround sound.

This Tether had a sound stage downstairs, for live performances.

"Dammit, Eli..." he muttered, not-slamming the door only because it would mess with the Image he was putting on. Fine. The rogue Archangel's around. Gotta be. He brightened up a little. Maybe he wants to join up, finally? Gotta give him a good pitch...

He was rubbing his hands together -- not smirking like a villain, but thoughtful like a producer -- by the time he got to the downstairs sound stage. He opened the door into the glassed-in technician's room, the producer's room, where a band's fate or destiny could be decided while that band played their little hearts out beyond, not knowing a thing.

His Seneschal, bound in cables but not gagged, was on the floor, facing him. The Djinn looked relieved to see his Prince -- which was something of a good sign.

On a stool, not facing the microphone for it, a woman sat. She was wearing some kind of tattered RenFaire outfit, all ribbons and multicolored antique-style skirts, but her dark hair was military-cut, maybe half an inch long, and ruffled.

And she sang. She sang like an angel, she sang like a demon. She sang like Christine at the Opera. He wasn't even paying attention to what she sang. But damn all Heaven's prejudice, he knew quality when he saw it.

And when the words trailed off, he stood up and applauded. "Baby, baby! I can make you a star! You're wonderful! You're great! You gotta stick with me, babe!"

She turned her head then, and her eyes reflected the static in his glasses. She didn't answer. She only opened her mouth, and sang again, slowly. He knew what it was, knew he couldn't stop it. And knew...

"You're not Eli." Who th'? Doesn't matter. He wanted her. Wanted her for his, wanted her like a Djinn wanted its obsession. All his clever scripts deserted him. "Wait! Wait! I gotta talk to you! Wait! Please!"

He reached out his hand, tried to sing the Shields that might keep her from going, but the threads were sucked out of his mouth, sucked out of his mind, and she vanished.

He stood there, while his Soundtrack hissed and crackled static in his soul, and wanted what he didn't have.

Then he turned his head a little, looked at his Djinn. "Damn angels. Can't appreciate a good performance, eh?"

The Djinn nodded. "Thassright, m'Lord Prince!"

"Good, good," Nybbas muttered, making his way out of the room to untie the Seneschal. And something inside him raged that he had been left behind.