Snippet #2749035

If the broad grin Christina flashed was any indication, the prospect of black sludge from the Devil’s armpit (wasn’t that one of Deicide’s albums?) was not an altogether unwelcome one. “Nice to know I’m not the only person in this studio who fancies their coffee on the stronger side,” she hummed pleasantly, and she went about pouring herself a cup.

“So how long have you been with Psychosis?” she piped up as she poured, glancing at Rick with an expression that was quintessentially Christina’s—a friendly smile, easygoing, with the faintest shade of something like badinage hanging over it like wisps of cloud in a sunny blue sky. She’d been told by any number of people that they sometimes couldn’t tell if she was poking fun at them for something they weren’t aware of, and her statements to the contrary were not helped by that accompanying smile. Still, the words were amiable enough, spoken in such a manner as implied she didn’t intend them as empty small talk any more than she expected the bassist (Ron?) to commit himself to anything more than just that.

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The door to Psychosis’s nook of the studio had indeed been open, and Valentina had indeed heard Rick’s little crack about her preferred coffee preparation methods. Unsurprisingly, she chose not to dignify it with a response.

Instead, she peered surreptitiously over at Izzie, sitting next to her with her chin resting on her palm, headphones still nestled in the greying mane of her hair, wearing an expression of practised dispassion. It wasn’t a look that betrayed much to the incognisant observer, not even to most people who at varying points had called themselves Izzie’s bandmates, but Valentina knew better. She knew that when Izzie snapped on those headphones and started listening to a bandmate’s take, she was scrupulously comparing it to the version in her head and weeding out the slightest discrepancy between the two. Izzie had worn much the same expression back when she’d been Valentina’s guitar tutor, listening to her then-student play through an exercise.

It was an expression that would perhaps have filled Valentina with anxiety if not for the fact that it pretty much always immediately preceded Izzie’s frank and unadulterated opinion on whatever she’d just been listening to. Case in point, she plucked the headphones off her head, set them down, and said, moderating her voice so it wouldn’t be heard in the coffee cranny, “I think he can do a smoother job with the sweeps leading into that final slam.”

“You’re going to make him retrack the whole thing over ten seconds of sweeping,” Valentina shot back.

It wasn’t a question, but Izzie answered nonetheless. “If I didn’t think he could do better, I wouldn’t. But I know he can, so I will.” When she caught Mini-Martinez sporting a dubious expression, she arched an eyebrow, and added, “It’s a compliment.”

“Right,” Valentina deadpanned. “I know I sure felt super complimented when you made me do like twenty takes for the solo on Angstloch.”

“To be honest, the second take was perfectly fine. The subsequent eighteen were just to mess with you.” Izzie offered a crooked smile. Valentina rolled her eyes.

If she had some appropriately sardonic volley lined up in response, however, it was pre-empted by the sound of somebody entering the studio—hurriedly, by the sound of it. “That had better be our erstwhile drummer,” Izzie said; that rare levity had vanished from her gruff voice. She was all professionalism again now, as usual, and lateness was a professional infraction. “I respect your time and expect you to show the band the same courtesy” was the standard refrain where that was concerned.

“I’ll go administer the cigarette and blindfold,” Valentina mumbled, standing up and making for the hall. Sure enough, there Ada was, looking… “Are you hungover?” Valentina all but whispered, glancing at the open door to Psychosis’s area. Izzie wasn’t going to be amused by this at all. Izzie was no teetotaller, certainly not, but Valentina had heard her recount enough scathingly-narrated tales of booze screwing up band mates’ performances or behaviour to suspect that, of the many things Izzie did not tolerate in her band, lateness incurred by drink was probably up there.

Valentina looked back at the open door, and then back at Ada, gnawing at her lip for a moment. “You better tell Izzie you were sick or something this morning,” she finally said, looking nothing if not conflicted about the whole affair. “She’s gonna be pissed if you say you were late ‘cause you were drinking.”