shostakovich

Name

Дми́трий Дми́триевич Шостако́вич

Affiliation

Foundation, Student

Height

65in.

Medium

Dread

dmitri shostakovich

a composer from Russia. though sometimes awkward and paranoid, he has a sarcastic sense of humor that is as sharp as his mind. his personality is often reflected inside his work, but maybe sometimes not at first glance, maybe sometimes masked under layers of irony and facades.

neat dark hair, matching his dark demeanor. sunken eyes that flash blue behind black, round glasses. an ink cartridge always filled and ready for use that hangs from a uniform that's always ironed. he always prefers the more simplistic every-day uniform over its fancier variants, and doesn't enjoy wearing the chains.

maybe he seems like the Foundation's poster child, always used by them to compose their themes and following their orders and used as a great example for others. but his rocky relationship with them is evident. many times he has been punished by them, drifting too close to their boundaries for comfort. he had been denounced twice, and had his life endangered much more than that. and yet he still treads the boundaries between what is allowed and what is not.

his style of combat might seem less forward when compared to, maybe someone like Paganini, who rushes forward. instead he stays back and overwhelms his opponents, surging forward emotions and an oppressive darkness that envelop and drown all other feelings. strong emotions that feel like your heart is racing too fast for your body, that feel like they will burst through your chest, or tear you apart, and then they do.

his relationship with his fellow students and coworkers varies. most of the time he is willing to help others, and is quite the hard worker, sometimes failing to take into account his own health, especially sleep. but he can also come off as very blunt, unwilling to compromise with his thoughts. Tchaikovsky will help him from time to time, bringing him coffee or deterring Mozart's pranks on him.

often, the expression on his face is neutral. a grimace built up from tragedy, past and present. but he'll never fail to smile when watching a football match!

glasses

a round pair of glasses, nothing special. sometimes, a certain Momo will take the liberty of... rehoming them while their owner is asleep.

"say, why not opt for contact lenses?"

"..."

he seemed more focused on the markings drawn on him with permanent marker rather than the loss of his sight.

pen

a glass pen, never separated from its owner. used for anything from compositions to letters, written in messy handwriting. sometimes, briefly lifted to cast magic to light up the dark room, then returning to paper.

a gift from Sollertinsky, eternally treasured.

purest faith foresworn

a rainy day. all the seats designated to one Dmitri Shostakovich had been empty in the Academy's classrooms. as a bell rang, marking the dismissal of classes, a boy ran through the gray halls of the Academy, hands cupped and leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind him. dashing past doors where students were trailing out, he saw his target destination and called out.

Sollertinsky turned his head at the familiar voice of his best friend and the mention of his name. behind him stood Tchaikovsky, wings yet to emerge. Tchaikovsky demanded to know why Shostakovich had been absent yet again, but Mitya paid him no mind, not directly answering the question but quickly showing the reason why.

a meow sounded from Mitya’s hands, and he revealed his hands to cradle a gentle small cat, white fur stained with dirt just as Mitya— and his uniform— was.

Tchaikovsky sighed.

gilded honor misplaced

a dark room. seven candlesticks. a full inkwell. an empty page of sheet music. and a commission for the Foundation's annual festivities.

six and a half candlesticks. a full inkwell. several empty pages of sheet music.

this would not have been such a dilemma for someone like Tchaikovsky. this should not have been such a dilemma for Shostakovich.

six candlesticks. at last he dipped his pen and scribbled down the first markings onto the paper. time, key, tempo. then, maybe starting out with a whole note here could lead into… no. this wouldn't do.

five candlesticks. an almost-full inkwell. an empty page of sheet music flat on the table and a crumpled paper beside it.

four and a half candlesticks. a half-empty inkwell. an empty page of sheet music surrounded by discarded scraps, half-buried. four. three and a half. two. one. he couldn't do it. he didn't want to. what good was it to sing praises to the Foundation, the same Foundation that had— no. it didn't matter if he didn't want to or if he couldn't. he must. even if it broke him, maybe he could break the Foundation from inside. a quiet protest singing along, harmonizing with sarcastic praise. yes, maybe that was it.

again he dipped his pen and thrust the ink down against the paper.

a bright room. a melted heap of wax. a stack of sheet music, lines and lines of brilliant notes poured out and a sleeping figure beside it. an empty inkwell and an empty heart.

right perfection disgraced

You seem nervous.
...
Stop doing that. Stop being nervous.
Have I done something wrong?
You seem to deeply misunderstand the purpose of this interview. This is merely for my newspaper. You're free to leave.
I don't have much time.
I am aware.
Firstly. How is your treatment as a composer at the Foundation, especially with your status?
It's fine.
...
...
Is that all?
Yes.