(no subject)
Irene found some green nailpolish, and since acetone is an unpleasant smell in any circumstance, she's taken it up to the roof to paint her nails. It's good strength training, which Irene defines as anything that involves having to have a light touch as opposed to one that moves mountains with a flick of a finger.
She's singing, but not in a language that anybody else in the apartments is likely to recognize, unless they make a habit of studying dead African languages, or are Biff. For all intents and purposes, she looks fairly happy with her situation. She has nail polish, a song, and acid rain isn't eating through her clothing - all conducive to a good day in Apocalyptica.
If only the song weren't the one they typically sang in Irene's city for soldiers who hadn't returned from war . . . there'd be nothing to indicate she's anything BUT cheerful as usual. Fortunate that nobody'll be able to understand.
She's singing, but not in a language that anybody else in the apartments is likely to recognize, unless they make a habit of studying dead African languages, or are Biff. For all intents and purposes, she looks fairly happy with her situation. She has nail polish, a song, and acid rain isn't eating through her clothing - all conducive to a good day in Apocalyptica.
If only the song weren't the one they typically sang in Irene's city for soldiers who hadn't returned from war . . . there'd be nothing to indicate she's anything BUT cheerful as usual. Fortunate that nobody'll be able to understand.