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Picture this:
Rodney McKay, playing the first few bars of Nina Simone's "Black Is the Color of My True Love's Hair" (download link provided, of course). That not enough for you? Picture this, then:
There is a piano. In Atlantis, perhaps; in Jeannie's house; in an empty auditorium, dust on the lid, even the sunlight there secretive and strange. Where it is, though, this is not actually important; nor is his reason for being there with it. There is a piano - that is enough.
He sits. Hunched, mouth turned downwards. He is not sure whether to be happy, or sad, or if what he feels is D, none of the above, the third answer in a true/false question, which is to say, indescribable, not that it will keep him from trying. Perhaps John is there; perhaps he is not. Someone is, though. Someone should be there to witness this.
Pencils at the ready; begin. He will start lightly, almost tentatively, like shaking hands with an old friend - it's been so long, after all, and he's not really sure where he stands with the piano - but stronger with every note, a crescendo of movement and sound - faster, faster, harder - until he's pounding at the keyboard, mouth tight, eyes bright. His back muscles clench; he leans into the keys. He feels the music like the time AR-1 almost got caught in a imanam, a rockslide, on MX4-829: the sheer impatience and power of it, as if nothing could stop the rocks' descent, like this tumble was written into the basecode - nay, the bones of the land, somehow essential to the existence of it. Absolutely terrifying, of course. Completely inevitable.
He could have died from that. Considers this, and pounds on, fingers slick on the keys. He thinks he could die from this, too.
Rodney McKay, playing the first few bars of Nina Simone's "Black Is the Color of My True Love's Hair" (download link provided, of course). That not enough for you? Picture this, then:
There is a piano. In Atlantis, perhaps; in Jeannie's house; in an empty auditorium, dust on the lid, even the sunlight there secretive and strange. Where it is, though, this is not actually important; nor is his reason for being there with it. There is a piano - that is enough.
He sits. Hunched, mouth turned downwards. He is not sure whether to be happy, or sad, or if what he feels is D, none of the above, the third answer in a true/false question, which is to say, indescribable, not that it will keep him from trying. Perhaps John is there; perhaps he is not. Someone is, though. Someone should be there to witness this.
Pencils at the ready; begin. He will start lightly, almost tentatively, like shaking hands with an old friend - it's been so long, after all, and he's not really sure where he stands with the piano - but stronger with every note, a crescendo of movement and sound - faster, faster, harder - until he's pounding at the keyboard, mouth tight, eyes bright. His back muscles clench; he leans into the keys. He feels the music like the time AR-1 almost got caught in a imanam, a rockslide, on MX4-829: the sheer impatience and power of it, as if nothing could stop the rocks' descent, like this tumble was written into the basecode - nay, the bones of the land, somehow essential to the existence of it. Absolutely terrifying, of course. Completely inevitable.
He could have died from that. Considers this, and pounds on, fingers slick on the keys. He thinks he could die from this, too.
