Free Black Glass by Meg; Mundell Page B

it?’
    â€˜Hang on a minute.’
    [—]
    â€˜Yeah. I’m getting a feel for it. Or some of it, anyway.’
    â€˜Aha. Right then. Give us the components — your best shot.’
    â€˜Well … there’s definitely some girl in there, in the top note. Quite young. Maybe a bit too young, actually, Chase …’
    â€˜Heh, smart guy. Ain’t nothing illegal about a smell, my friend. First thing you noticed too … interesting. What else?’
    â€˜Ethics-wise, I’d bump the age up if I were you. This one might confuse the dads.’
    â€˜Thanks for the moral advice, Milkman, but let’s just stick with analysis. What else you got? Come on, you’re a machine. Don’t censor, just interpret.’
    â€˜You want my professional take, or personal?’
    â€˜Hell, both. What’s the difference when you’re a fucking artiste like us, right.’
    â€˜Okay … There’s boy in there too, bit sweaty — but the girl’s stronger. And definitely some Beach in the core note. Sand, ozone, seaspray, negative ions. Waves — bit of a crash, but not too rough. Dry notes too: little flash of rock dust, like ignition. Rocks banged together, almost sparks.’
    â€˜Brilliant.’
    â€˜That gunpowder note, it’s one of my favourites.’
    â€˜Me too. You’re a genius. Go on.’
    â€˜There’s a touch of something adrenal halfway down. But not fearful, exactly — more anticipation, butterflies in the stomach. Lower down there’s greenery: moss, with some sharp stuff, juniper maybe. Actually it’s a bit lemony, I’d knock that back a bit.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Kind of clashes with the girl note.’
    â€˜Depends what you’re using it for. Go on.’
    â€˜Near the bottom, there’s what — cat fur? And a tiny dab of jet fuel, nice touch. But the best element’s your base note: Hope. Not the painful, misguided kind. Not self-delusion; something young and clear. Verging on elation. Not bad, Chase. What is it? You’ve spliced something new onto H18, right?’
    â€˜Close, maestro. But like Mr Freud said, no cigar.’
    â€˜You’re getting mixed up, Freud never said that.’
    â€˜Whatever. What about the visuals? What kicks in?’
    â€˜What have you spliced on the bottom there? On the H?’
    â€˜Aha. Specialist information, my friend. Shut your eyes again. What can you see?’
    â€˜You want visuals? That’s extra, Chase. Specialist info.’
    â€˜Come on, don’t be like that. Gimme that special Milk magic. I always look after you, don’t I?’
    â€˜Okay, okay … This is purely subjective, remember. Right: I can see sand dunes, beach grass. Well out of the city, but under a flight path. A gothic kind of beach: black sand, volcanic. Wildlife lurking around, just out of sight.’
    â€˜Christ. Go on.’
    â€˜Cumulus clouds. Sunny, but a chilly wind. Freedom — with just enough risk to feel exciting. That sense of hovering on the verge of being airborne, about to leave the ground … It’s definitely late adolescence, this one. Those sudden shots of self-belief you got in your late teens, with the hormones kicking in?’
    â€˜Jesus. Every time. That’s impressive, man.’
    â€˜Nice mix, Chase. The idea’s not exactly new, but you’ve done something original with it. Needs some finetuning, but still …’
    â€˜So let’s talk business.’
    â€˜Okay, review’s over. That base note, the hope variant. What is it?’
    [Disused rail tunnel: links Docklands and Carnie District, The Quarter: Tally | Blue | Diggy | miscellaneous unverified persons]
    The air inside the tunnel smelled of motor oil and rat piss. Up ahead, in the dim shafts of light falling from the vents, she could just make out Blue, a skinny shadow stepping over puddles and broken pipes, trailing the curve of