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Focus on the center and push the button. Like Shinji Ikari having a brain melt or something, but at least Sandrine felt someone more with it. The impression was that most senshi did their business at night. There was also the weird question if leaving one place at one time, would it be the same time in the other place? How long did the travel take? Was it like a plane ride? Was it instant? The Primer didn't really mention any such specifics about the E.T. phone home. So the senshi of execution sat on the edge of an old post office in a sub-suburb, legs dangled and kicking slowly to bounce heels off the decorative cement whorls.

Doin' it? Doin it. Nothing else planned today or tomorrow. So if it takes a while in transit I've got....well a really inadequate buffer of time because space is really damn wide compared to flying to Florida. Sandrine tried to still, to quiet mind and focus, listen, find something inside that was like a song. After five minutes, the button was pushed. Nothing happened- Sandrine noticed that there'd been a constant background earworm of Train's 'Drops Of Jupiter'. Pretty sure THAT'S not the song of my homeworld.

Since the button hadn't worked, there was a good degree of reassurance. But it also meant that trying to combat earworm with another was just as detrimental. How does anyone ever meditate? Isn't it boring to think about ********? How do you think, active, on nothing, inactive? It doesn't even make sense.

Sandrine flopped backwards, booping head momentarily against the concrete roof with a shouted, "Balls!" How did the greater will of the universe know or care whether someone had other thoughts in their head at the same time they pushed a button? As long as the one thought was there, didn't it count? Maybe one of the theater fear-focus exercises would help? Sandrine closed eyes and breathed out, counting seconds 1-2-3 on the inhale and 1-2-3-4 on the exhale until it no longer was difficult. Toes, wiggled them in boots. Feet, moved them up and down like pedals of a car. Ankles, wiggled around like ball joints on a doll. Shins and knees, bounced each a piece a couple times again, thocking on the building. Thighs, scissored like it was a dance floor and it was the bee's knees. Hips, a little harder laying down, but shimmied a little. Ribs, lifted, curled back around, the key to 'belly dancing' was a lot of rib work more than hip work. Shoulders, rolled one then the other. Elbows did the funky chicken, then wrists ball joints again. Fingers flared and unflared like fans in front of eyes still closed. Opened. Cloudless blue seared into equally blue eyes between the shadows cast of fingers.

Sandrine hit the button. Nothing happened.
"Titwaffles. HOW DOES THIS STUPID THING WORK? WHERE IS THE 'SONG OF MY WORLD?"

It isn't in my head, and it sure as hell isn't in my a**, if I needed to fart out the symphony of it. What am I supposed to be listening to? Who WRITES this stuff? It's like 'listen to your heart'- ******** you you insipid wank. Sandrine sat up, deliberately putting phone aside on the roof behind the ledge instead giving in to the very present desire to launch it into the daylight ether of the city. The words came out sulking, "Whoever 'you' is, anyway. "