A Musical Interlude

[nomen_est_numen]

["Delivery for Mister Shen..." A courier delivers a bizarrely-shaped package for the bird in question, who is still under observation at the Labs. This object turns out to be a Chinese lute.]

[He's festooned with sensors and still looking rather tired, but Shen finds a comfortable place to sit and stretches, cracking the knuckles... of his... feet.... That done, he picks up the lute and strikes a few chords on it, a wing pressing the frets and a foot strumming the strings. It's a somewhat contortionist style of playing, but appears to work. His playing is passable, even pleasant. His singing, on the other hand, is a bit... rusty.]

[For the next twenty minutes, Shen plucks at those strings and warbles in Chinese, his voice occasionally cracking in a truly avian keeeeOWW. Folks can understand the words, though the metaphors are pretty difficult to parse, seeing as he's probably the worst lyricist this side of the legendary Song So Poo, Court Composer for the Kantwin Dynasty.]

[Pity anyone stuck in the observation room with him.]

[EDIT: As though that weren't bad enough, he and Gordon are now singed, torn up, bruised, and twitching messes. While Shen may still be in the observation room, Gordon's in the lab at large. Oh, dear.]

Comments

[trustycrowbar]

[One thing can be said about that shock tool... it erased any notion of retaliation in his mind. After a little while longer her sits up and gropes for his glasses, plastering them clumsily back on his face and getting to his feet. Trying to somehow trawl up some of the dignity lost to the depths of ego, miscommunication and instinct. Tugging his torn labcoat staight. Dusting himself off.]

Thanks Mordin. I uh... Smithers, you watch the film growth for a while. I'm... I'm going to go get some air, and try to forget the last five minutes of my life ever happened.

[And he does.]

[nomen_est_numen]

[Shen, on the other hand, takes a little longer to wobble to his feet, and says nothing as he drags himself across the room to the spot he'd been sitting at when the whole fracas began. It's a cushiony little niche and he arranges himself in it to get comfortable and rest, still getting his breath back.]