"Alright, let's get this thing started! I'm here with...now, what is it again, my friend?"
"The Camerata."
"Ah, yes, Ca-mer-ata. Wave Tennegan here, with the Camerata."
"Mr. Tennegan, didn't we agree you wouldn't disclose details of our identity?"
"Ah — that is — ah, yes. Thank you for the reminder. This isn't for the show, just for my personal records. I can edit it later, no worries, no worries. Ah, perhaps we should just move on. What was it that you wanted to show —?"
:::
A reception for up-and-coming talent. She had organized it some weeks back: a couple magician-like flourishes over her terminal, and the details were pulled together as easily as any building. Minus the debates and arguments and all the rest of that time-consuming nonsense.
"That's what's nice about events," Sybil mused aloud, kicking her foot against the sand to give the hammock a good swing. "They come and they go and they can't be ruined by mass stupidity way after the fact."
The dog lifted its head at the sound of her voice, wagged its tail enthusiastically. It whipped sand into her face, and Sybil's face puckered as she snapped, "Stop that."
The dog stilled immediately. Sybil blinked. Since when did dogs ever listen that closely?
She slid off the hammock, brushing sand off her lap, and began to make her exit, calling out a firm "Stay" as the dog attempted to follow.
The reception itself was scheduled uncomfortably close to a Yon-Dale that she wanted to attend, but she decided to drop by anyway, in the unlikely event there was someone there who wasn't yet on her radar.
She entered, made the requisite greetings, began her rounds: eyeing instruments, stepping into sound bubbles, fitting headphones cautiously over her hair. She made notes in her terminal and was on the way out when she heard it.
A voice.
Her heart skipped a beat — then another — and then sped up, racing to make up for lost time. She crammed her terminal into her purse, ran back into the venue, rushing like a moth to a bulb, practically crashing into a couple chairs arranged before the stage. She looked up, and closed her widened eyes, letting the voice sink and thrum in every vein. It was — fantastic. It was —
"A-amazing," Sybil gasped as soon as the singer stepped down from the stage. They jumped as Sybil grabbed their hand and yanked so that they (and their nametag) faced her. Sybil squinted at it.
"Red?"
"Ah — yes —"
"Red. Hi. I — I'm Sybil," Sybil managed, shaking her hand vigorously. "Um, that is, Reisz, Sybil Reisz. I've never heard anything like you before — I — I can't believe — I —"
What was she doing? Sybil flushed, mortified by her own stammering, but the singer just laughed.
"So…I take it that it's more than just fine?"
"Wh-what? Yes, of course!"
With some horror, she realized that she was still holding Red's hand. She was still shaking it. She released it so abruptly she practically threw it, and then gasped, "Sorry! Sorry about that."
"It's fine," Red said, pushing her hair over one ear. She was watching Sybil with a faint, amused, lovely smile. Sybil swallowed.
"Do you — do you have any more music? That I can listen to?"
"Yeah," Red said. Sybil instructed her on how to send it to her terminal, and as soon as Sybil returned back to her Sandbox, she tugged Royce in to conjure her a music player.
"Listen," she said, feeding the files in eagerly. Soon, Red's voice emerged from the speaker — pure and clear — like crystal, like light.
"Isn't it gorgeous?" Sybil breathed.
"I suppose." Royce leaned over to peer at the music player. "Who is it?"
Sybil took a breath. She didn't answer immediately. The voice washed over her, filled all her empty spaces, rose and fell and rose again in her chest like the waves that surrounded her Sandbox: crashing, crashing, crashing.
Sybil rubbed her arms, smoothed down the goosebumps. Oh, Red had talent. She had power.
"Who is it?" Royce asked again.
Sybil answered, softly. Eyes closed.
"Our next candidate."
