Stories set in the Oversaturated World, some silly, some less so.
Adagio sometimes felt an almost physical pain when she thought about how much she had regained while still not having her voice: Gills. Magical facsimiles of fins. Fangs that at least came close to proper ones. But her heartstone was still lost and broken, and she still couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. But one ability she'd retained for all of her long, strange, and often frustrating life was perfect pitch, above or beneath the waves. If there had ever been a siren who couldn't tell one note from another, she'd been eaten by her siblings shortly after hatching.
As such, she was able to tell that the shriek filling the house was very nearly a perfect A# six octaves above middle C, with just enough dissonance to bring back the sting of loss. She was also able to tell that it was too-damn-early o' clock on a Saturday.
Adagio staggered out of her bedroom to see Sonata holding up a black T-shirt and gasping for breath, presumably gearing up for another shriek. "Whatever it is," Adagio growled out, "don't."
Sonata pouted for less than a second before she started to snicker. "You—"
"I am aware that I have a pillow trapped in my hair, yes." It wasn't the first time, and they both knew it wouldn't be the last.
"Oh, hey, you're actually up before noon." Aria said as she breezed by. She turned to Sonata before Adagio could cajole her woozy brain into producing a proper comeback. "Those them?"
Sonata nodded. "They look even better than I'd hoped! I knew this was the guy to ask." She held up the shirt again, still pointed away from Adagio.
"Huh. These actually don't suck. We might sell a few."
"Sell?" The salt-choked gears of Adagio's mind finally started to turn, even without coffee to dissolve the crust. "The new shirts for the online store?"
"What else would they be?" Sonata flipped the shirt around, revealing a grumpy portrait of Adagio herself. It was actually fairly accurate, aside from her hair being the wrong color. And far greasier than it should be.
And then she thought to read the caption.
"No. Absolutely not."
Sonata nodded. "I thought you'd say that." She gave a grin sharks would envy. "Which is why I already ordered a run of five hundred."
Aria high-fived her. "Nice. I'm gonna go punch zombie cops."
"Have fun!"
Adagio snatched the shirt out of Sonata's hand. "I refuse to let that moment be memorialized like this."
"It's already all over EweTube. Besides, the shirts are super-cheap. They'll probably fall apart by next year." After a moment, Sonata added, "If anyone washes them. Which might be asking a bit much."
Adagio threw the shirt on the floor hard enough to make the pillow follow suit. "My name is not Asiago Dazzle, damn it!"
Sonata winked and said the same thing she did when they were on stream. "But if Sunset's the Bacon Horse, you're totes the Cheese Fish!"
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I take it Adagio made the little slip up and accidentally said her name wrong, much to the world's -- or at least her sisters' -- amusement.
With the naming conventions in this universe, there could be a character named Asiago Dazzle running around somewhere.
A#/Bb9 (five octaves and a minor seventh above middle C/C4) is an octave and a minor seventh beyond the highest note playable on either an 88-key piano or a piccolo. It's two octaves and a major seventh above the highest note I can find ever having been seriously written for human voice (A6 for coloratura soprano in Thomas Ades' opera The Exterminating Angel), and most composers writing for professional sopranos limit their extreme upper range to a major third below that at F6. It's a shame the sirens have lost their ability to sing correct notes, because if they could every opera company in the world would want them.