master.

cristobal bolaño sous chef workaholic

[murderousintcntions-blog]

Fuck. Not another one of these. The one from last night was enough, but now there’s another random ass dude in her room for no apparent reason. Ana regarded his hand like an animal wounded one too many times might: with distasteful caution. She could no longer afford to trust anyone (after all, who in this world would open up to a serial killer?). 

“Not actually here,” Ana repeats testily, her headache not doing much to improve her mood. With a surge of rebellion, she stepped forward and gave the man a testy jab in the chest. 

“Hm,” she clicks her tongue disdainfully. “You feel real enough.” 

At his next few words, however, she gave a bark of laughter and backed off a pace or two. Him. Hurt her. Hilarious. The shit she could do to him right now … 

“Connected,” she echoes him once again, like a condescending teacher to her very stupid student. “Mentally. Yes. Of course.” 

Then she sobered for a moment, the savagely superior grin dropping off as she somewhat acknowledged how serious he was. 

“No,” Ana replied flatly, her face expressionless now. “Wrong continent.” She avoided specifying even what country, however; no matter how likely it was she was simply losing her mind, Ana wasn’t about to spill her super secret location to a stranger – even if he different feel as strange as he should. 

[mcsterchef-blog]

       ‘ Real as I feel to you-- ’ Even he has to admit that the jab she offered actually hurt a bit. When you get down to it though, feeling’s only your brain telling you certain things. If they’re all in each others’ heads, doesn’t that pretty much explain everything? ‘ --I’m currently in Athens. At a very nice party and probably talking to myself. ’ 

Cris thinks he’s figuring all of this out, slowly but surely, and maybe when he has all of the answers he’ll be able to make all of these... strangers go away for good. It really doesn’t do, them turning up at random times, him ending up in the strangest of all places in the blink of an eye. All Cristobal wants to do is focus on his work, and right now she is making this difficult. 

He stops all of a sudden, thinking, frowning, and he wonders if there’s any way to drag her to Athens in his head or something. It’s hard to tell if any of this is voluntary or just-- automatic, something that happens without any of them saying so. It would certainly prove his point if they ended up in the garden he’d been occupying not five minutes ago, though. Not that he wants a perfect stranger ruining any chance he has at impressing his boss. He has to admit though, he’d rather be in that garden than whatever corner of hell this is.

           ‘ Where are we, then? Or-- you. Where are you? I already made it clear where I am. Might be you’d like to take a look for yourself but I’m not entirely sure if you can just... bunny hop over. ’

[carlosfreckles]

#sounds fake but okay

[murderousintcntions-blog]

Ana woke with a splitting headache. It was the sort of headache that made someone want to die, honestly, and she put a hand to her temple and scowled at the room in front of her.

It was a shabby room, to be sure. Sparesely decorated and only holding the bare necessities, Ana Fonseca, serial killer, had found herself hiding out in some hick town a few miles south of the Mexican-American border. It was hot here, and the fans didn’t fucking work, and she would go to bed fucking naked if she wasn’t sure Camille would thunder inside and find her there on the bed, sweating and in her underwear, that very evening. If and when Camille tracked her down, Ana wanted to look her best.

Ana rose and sat on the edge of her bed, holding her face in her hands. Ever since her very vivid dream a the day before, this headache wouldn’t cease. She rubbed her eyes and sighed, reaching for the bottle of aspirin she had painstakingly bartered for in broken Spanglish and butchered Italian (sorry, Dad) and swallowed two dry.

She gave another steadying sigh before opening her eyes and rising – and promptly flinching and stumbling back a couple of steps as she noticed the second figure in the room.

“What – how did you get in?” she demanded, squinting to see their face in the relative darkness of the room. Ana scrambled with the desk lamp switch and turned in on as she continued, “What do you want? Get out!”

[mcsterchef-blog]

Oddly enough ( because this is the kind of thing one should always be concerned about, is it not? ) he has found himself... apathetic to whatever this is. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, and Cristobal is good at adapting when he has to-- and something tells him that, with all of this stranger-hopping as he’s decided to call it, he’s going to have to adapt. You know, if he wants to remain sane and all. 

He’s not entirely convinced that this isn’t some weird dream, perhaps prompted by the stress of work, which might have everything to do with how calm and collected he is despite only having gone through this twice before. 

Arm outstretched, he offers her an open palm as if he’s surrendering ( or trying to convince her not to attack him, as he’s certain might be possible ) and he hopes that this lucky streak of winding up in the heads of people who speak Greek continues. Hasn’t really occurred to him yet that they might be tapping into his knowledge of the language.

           ‘ Easy. I don’t think I’m actually here. ’ Cris would grimace, were he only the type. He’s not about to admit that he said something stupid, though. ‘ I’m not going to hurt you. We’re-- connected, I think. Mentally. This isn’t Athens, I take it? ’

[dailyclassicalmusic]

Visit Original Link

Composer: Carl Reinecke (1824 - 1910)

Work: Andante from Symphony Nr. 2 in c minor “Håkon Jarl” (1874)

Performer: Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra; conducted by Howard Shelley

[theairisacid-blog1]