The vinegar-like smell of the darkroom always filled Quentin with joy. Even the gentle slosh of the development bath hitting the edges of the tray made him feel at peace with the world. Not that he’d been at war with it when entering, Quentin thought with a smile, but developing the photos was just as much a part of his art as actually framing the shot and taking the picture.

How people could claim traditional photography was dead was beyond Quentin. Yes, holoramas were the perfect medium to preserve every detail — no one would find him arguing that stills ought to make a comeback for forensic work — but there was nothing emotional in translucent 3D renderings that, along with the scene, also *rendered* the human eye irrelevant. It was his vision that made his work what it was; choosing to leave something *out* of the frame was as important, if not more, than choosing what to keep.

The beeping of the holonexus he’d left in the living room alerted him to an incoming call. He never brought it with him in here — some people chose to ignore his “in the darkroom” status, despite knowing light from the nexus would ruin his photos. Probably yet another company offering unsolicited SynTracker insurance.

In the developing tray, his latest photo started to come to life, outside distractions forgotten.

This was his favourite part — the moment when his work revealed itself in a format other people would be able to appreciate. One by one he enlarged his prints, thrilled with the end result. He couldn’t *wait* to see the reactions to the exhibition.

On the subject of said exhibition, it was time to hang the last photo of the day to dry and make several calls to fine-tune whatever details needed adjusting. Ian would be coming home in a few hours, and Quentin didn’t want to be the one making them late for dinner.