Here is Bella, catching up on her email, trying to come up with a reasonable mathematical approximation of the known abilities of evils versus arrows to guess how many dead people she can bring back with one of the latter, trying to come up with a prioritization scheme for putting her waiting list in order.
[You could come by and I could sing it for you,] he suggests. [And then you'll be one of very few people who's seen me sing while wearing a shirt.]
[Somehow I doubt this particular distinction is one that would make me the envy of the fandom, but sure.] She pops down. She knocks.
It's a good anthem. It's a good song, for that matter. Simple and singable and pretty and heartening.
"No title," he adds when he's done, "I'm shit at titles, it's my major failing as an artist."
"It's beautiful, I love it," beams Bella. "How about 'Song of Saturn'? Can you orchestrate or should I find somebody else for that part?"
"'Song of Saturn'. Sounds like something out of a video game," he laughs. "It's perfect. And yeah, I don't exactly have a lot of experience with orchestras."
"Well, Slipstick'll find me somebody or I'll arrange it myself," shrugs Bella. "It's gorgeous, it's my new favorite song, want to record a version to put on the website?"
"Sure," he says cheerfully. "Know where I can borrow a decent studio? Or can you just conjure one up?"
Ripper names the virtues of a good recording studio, chief among which are equipment and soundproofing.
"If I find another use for a recording studio I can always put one there too. I'll just stick it in the corner." She pentagons up an appropriate studio, with magic handwaving the functions of a technical crew.