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fandomhigh_ooc2012-01-13 12:30 pm
childhood-taunt.livejournal.com) wrote in fandomhigh_ooc2012-01-13 12:30 pm
Entry tags:
Meme: Writing Samples!
Looks like we haven't done this one since April and because we've had oodles of new characters since then...
Share your writing samples!
Yep. That easy.
Share your writing samples!
Yep. That easy.
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However, even being a witch and playing with crystal skulls hadn’t prepared her from trying to explain to a very large polar bear that she didn’t really want any Coca-Cola.
Even thinking that seemed pretty strange.
“Look, you’re very nice and all, but I don’t really drink coke,” she tried explaining.
The bear just looked at her with his bug brown eyes and extended his hand with the bottle toward her again.
“No thank you, Mr. Bear ---“ Okay, then that would be one of the most bizarre things that she had ever heard herself say. “--- but you should probably give that soda to someone else who wouldn’t let it go to waste.”
The bear shook his head and pushed the paw holding the bottle of soda at her again.
Cassie sighed, not wanting to hurt his feelings and finally took the bottle. She looked away to place it in her bag and when she looked up again, she shook her head.
“No, really, one is fine for me, I promise!”
Cassie went over this scene with the polar bear five more times before she was finally able to convince him to go find someone else to give free soda to.
After the bear finally wandered off in another direction, Cassie continued her walk from the town to the dorms. She was still getting used to the layout of this island, so she was just a little surprised when she ended up in the park. She looked around and tried to get her bearings when she was approached by another polar bear. This polar bear was holding a bottle of soda in both paws as he looked at her expectantly.
She was going to remind him that she didn’t want any more bottle of coca-cola when she saw the black spot over the bear’s eye. This was a completely different polar bear than the one she had been speaking to before.
“How many more times am I going to have to go over this tonight?” she demanded.
She realized a few moments later that she should never have asked that kind of question out loud.
Five minutes later, she was sitting on the ground, leaning against a polar bear and explaining to them all how she wished they were back in New Salem because the guys would love the free supply of Coca-Cola to go with their rum …
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I used them all. Also, I used Gabrielle in my writing sample because I get weirdly self-conscious about using other people's characters, like WHAT IF I WRITE THEM WRONG OH GOD.
***
The pie fell out of thin air and nearly hit Anakin in the face as he hurried down the hallway toward the library; as it was, he had to wipe splatters of chocolate cream out of his eyes, since he'd been about to flick it aside with the Force and a wave of his hand before thinking better of it and just stepping aside instead.
"I'd have missed it completely if I hadn't hesitated," he muttered to himself, shaking his head and making a mental note to work on that. He'd need it, since the falling pies had been a problem all week. At least that gave him opportunities to practice.
Anakin sighed and scraped a bit more chocolate off his cheek, then pushed open the library doors. And decided he wasn't asking why he got a fanfare of accordion music as greeting when he walked in.
The girl at the desk looked up and waved an ink-stained hand at him, reassuringly. "It's been doing that today. Best not to ask why."
Anakin frowned at her. "But all these things that keep happening around here have to have explanations."
The girl chuckled, a sort of oh, you're so new laugh that set Anakin's teeth on edge, but he took a breath and kept himself from saying anything snappish. "You really haven't been in Fandom long, have you? I know it doesn't make sense, but believe me. Trying to make sense of it will only drive you crazy."
And now Anakin really scowled at her. "There has to be some logical reason for it," he insisted. "The pies, the dancing leprechauns, the --"
Just to compound matters, a cacaphony of voices suddenly rose from the philosophy section of the library, and he glanced toward it, startled.
"Hey, hey, keep it down over there!" the library aide called (loud enough to carry but not quite loud enough to count as 'yelling,' Anakin couldn't help noting), then gave him an apologetic glance. "Metaphysics and Epistemology are trying to one-up each other again."
"That's exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about," Anakin insisted. "The library books are talking! Everyone always tells me, 'Oh, it's Fandom,' as if that explains everything. It shouldn't."
The look she gave him this time was less patronizing, but a little sterner -- not that much unlike the way Aunt Mara used to look at him when he argued with her over solutions to problems. He could practically hear her telling him to look deeper, to find a different way to look at things.
His scowl softened into a slight, contemplative frown.
"Unless," he finally ventured, "you're trying to tell me Fandom has its own kind of logic."
She smiled. "Exactly. Now, was there something you needed help with?"
"Well, I was here to look up some stuff on exobiology, but . . ." Anakin gave her a trademark lopsided Solo grin. "I'll figure out how to find it myself. It'll be fun."
***
Also, for fun and because the text box on the app form was too small to allow my entire original reply to the question, I share for posterity this one bit of smartassery from my app.
How did you find us?: While trying to escape from a murderous AI in the Aperture Science lab, I accidentally shot a portal into a wall with a drawing of a gremlin on it and the rest is history.
Oz
“Good, I see you’ve all brought along a spoon like I asked you to.” Oz had told his to class meet him deep in the preserve today, and to bring a spoon. “Keep ‘em handy kids.”
Oz pointed to a monstrosity of logs and ropes. “Nothing builds trust like an obstacle course, especially one you need to work in pairs to get through. Fastest team gets a prize. And what do you know, this week you can even pick your own partners. Except the twins, after their performance last class they have to work together.” He blithely ignored the glares Jason and Percy sent his way.
“Now I’m sure most of you think that we could be doing this in the Danger Shop, but the thing with the Danger Shop is it’s too forgiving of mistakes, and if you think you can make mistakes, you get sloppy, and as you should all know by now, sloppy is bad.
“Another thing that makes people sloppy is haste, which brings us to your spoons. Hold ‘em out.” Oz held up a bucket of small, off-white ovoids and started moving down the line of students. “We’re not just having an obstacle course race. It’s an egg and spoon obstacle course race. You or your partner lose your egg? Doesn’t matter how quick you made it through the course.”
Jason frowned as he examined the object Oz had just placed on his spoon. “These aren’t eggs.”
“And that’s a gold star for being quick on the mark. Of course they’re not, too much risk of salmonella poisoning if we used real eggs. So we’re using a stand in. But don’t worry, C-4 is very stable,” Oz reassured them as he loaded the starter pistol. “Never detonates if you drop it. Well, almost never.”
Oz wasn’t lying, C-4 was a very stable explosive. He just neglected to mention the eggs weren’t made of it. Still not one student dropped theirs.
Lex Luthor
"What happened?" And what was he wearing? Purple and green never went together, especially not when...was this vinyl or spandex?
"We found you outside Jeff, God of Biscuits," Anakin replied, still glaring.
Now that he'd mentioned it, Lex did seem to recall something to do with cupcakes. It would account the sugary taste at least, though not the haziness, unless the frosting had been spiked. That would explain why Lex kept getting distracted by Anakin's hair and wondering if it was more or less luxurious than Lionel's.
Anakin cleared his throat and Lex's attention snapped back to his face. "You took forty cakes."
"That's as many as four tens," Lex said, nodding solemnly. Now that he thought about it that was kind of odd, since as far as he was aware most cupcake trays came in multiples of six, not five. He noticed Anakin wasn't looking any happier, so he tried adding "And that's terrible?"
Tyrion Lannister
Tyrion Lannister was fairly certain he looked like a fool, in both the professional and descriptive senses, as he waddled into the classroom balancing a tower of pie boxes far taller than the top of his head. He cursed the bakery's lack of delivery service: Whatever kind of god Jeff was, he clearly was not a benevolent one to dwarfs in a hurry.
"Good morning, young learners," Tyrion said dryly, as he walked over to a table and set the boxes down with a muffled thump. He had to strain onto the balls of his feet to sort them out, and as he did so he still hadn't looked at his students. "Today we're talking about negotiating. You'll each get a whole pie; your job is to work with other students until you have the pie you like best."
He was rubbing his forehead a bit as he turned to the students. "Now, there are various tactics you can use. You could, for example, simply pull out your purse and buy the pie you want. Easy, efficient, and not inelegant. Or, if you're the type to hit things instead, you could punch someone in the nose and steal their pie. I'm not foolish enough to stand in the way of the flow of commerce. But I would recommend - "
Tyrion's monologue was interrupted by a high-pitched giggle, and he finally gave the students more than a cursory glance. A dozen or so fresh-faced small children stared back at him. They were silent for a blessed moment, then:
"Can I go potty?" asked a wretch with his finger in his nose.
"You're shorter than I am," stated a very poised little girl. "How come?"
"He's short," agreed a boy with a mohawk. "I could hit him. It'd be fun."
"It's not nice to hit," said a prim redhead. "My mommy says."
"Your mommy's dumb," the hooligan contributed.
And from there, somehow, the fight grew and grew into a conflagration, until one particularly bright little scamp grabbed a box of pie and tossed the contents at her adversary. Tyrion retreated to the relatively safe higher ground of his desk and raised his voice.
"The lesson plan is suspended in favor of a pie fight." Sometimes, after all, you just had to give the people what they wanted.
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These three ducks had been following Electroclash around all day, all over the picnic in the park. She couldn't shake them off, no matter how hard she tried, and she was starting to think they didn't understand English – which would've been a strange thought if only she hadn't been living on Fandom for the past few months. If fucking squirrels could master English comprehension (even if it was via rum consumption), then ducks bloody well ought to have too. But these ones? They just kept waddling on after her wherever she went.
It was really, really pissing her off. Wasn't it enough that none of her stupid… people from back home in London had shown up for this stupid weekend even though they'd stupid bloody promised? Now she had to deal with some mentally deficient ducks on top of her already impressive annoyance.
While one of the ducks waddled towards a nearby foodtable, Electroclash sunk down into a seat, scowling at nothing in particular. As she did that, one of the other ducks tilted its head, then stepped aside for no discernible reason. Not that she noticed, even though she petulantly kicked a loose rock in that general direction just a moment after. The rock flew harmlessly past the duck that had stepped away from its path, and the other one, which ran excitedly after the piece of rock.
… And then, even though it was a decently sized rock, picked it up with its beak, and brought it back to Electroclash. She frowned. Frowned hard. The rock-evading duck seemed to give her an unimpressed look for that. And with good reason, because it was really only once the other duck, the one that had decided to wander a little further, accidentally set a tablecloth on fire that Electroclash figured out what was happening.
"Jesus Christ."
So on the plus side, her friends had shown up. (Not that she would've cared if they hadn't. Obviously.) On the not-plus side? Fandom.
"Bumsticks," she muttered under her breath. Then, louder, addressing the ducks, she added, "If any of you shit on any of my things, I'm leaving you at the mercy of the gremlins. Do you understand?"
Timebomb, She-Force, and the Hotness nodded their little duck heads.
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The other nights were spent patrolling the streets of Fandom, red hood over her face, making sure she didn’t let her Bruce Wayne training go to waste. She’d taken to the vigilante thing with full enthusiasm, a semi-healthy way of dealing with all those impulses that tended to scare her. She loved the feel of the cool wind as she perched on rooftops in her leather jacket, the feel of the crowbar in her hand. Bruce and Roy never really approved of the crowbar, but so far she’d not actually managed to main anyone permanently, so they’d never gotten her to stop using it.
This particular night, she heard a scream, an outcry, and a voice that sounded oh so familiar. When she scrambled down the fire escape into the alley, she didn’t even think twice or hesitate. She saw her blonde friend and the big winged assailant, and she had to act fast. So she clocked that feathery foe right in the back of the head, knocking him to the ground.
“Excuse me, your majesty,” Hayley said, instantly breaking the vigilante rules by pulling up her hood so that her friend could see her face. “That piece of work won’t be a problem again. I’ll just call the--”
“What did you do?!” Karla interrupted, instantly ducking down to check on her poor boyfriend. “Hayley, this is my boyfriend!”
Hayley’s previously proud face fell instantly, completely devastated at her mistake. “Oh no, you mean that was a good scream? Awww, fudgesicles.”
She was going to feel bad about that for a while. She’d just have to... not mention it in her next letter to Commissioner Wayne.
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“You say you’re the son of Poseidon, hmmm?” Herc said, stroking his beard in thought.
“Yes, I--” Percy didn’t get to finish his sentence as Hercules had splashed his glass of water right in the boy’s face. “What was that for!” he sputtered.
“A true son of Poseidon would enjoy the water!” Herc said, standing up from his chair with enough force that the chair toppled over backwards. He winced momentarily. “Oops.”
“Who enjoys getting water in the face? Seriously?” Percy objected.
“But you’re the son of Poseidon!” Herc said. “That’s... wait, you’re right, that doesn’t work. Perhaps I should test you by throwing you into the duck pond!” He laughed with mirth, and actually took a step towards the boy. Percy was out of his chair and backing towards the door.
“You’re crazy,” Percy said. “Why should I have to prove my self? You haven’t done anything to prove you’re Hercules other than wear a skirt. Which doesn’t make you someone from myth, it makes you a girl.”
“It is not a skirt!” Herc said, pointing a finger at Percy. “It’s properly fashionable and practical, giving full movement of your legs. Pants can end up impeding a good swift kick!” He meant it, too. Hercules wore pants when out and about in the world in general, since it helped him blend in, but generally he was not a fan. The fashions of old were far more preferable.
He paused.
“Not to mention it makes light breezes much more enjoyable.”
And with that, Percy had run off. Hercules just shrugged and opened the window to his office and shouted out to... anyone who could hear, really. “Today is a good day not to wear pants!” And punctuated it with a hearty laugh. He might get in trouble, he might not. He certainly wasn’t asking the students to strip, that would be very, very wrong. But perhaps the lads of the school would learn the joys of skirts and kilts.
“Perhaps I should incorporate that into my next lesson...”
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As she knelt down in the soil and placed her hands against the ground, she immediately could feel the tension starting to ease within her. She let some of her energy out into the ground and closed her eyes as she started to relax.
She would have relaxed more if something hadn't suddenly landed on her head with a loud *plop*. She frowned, eyes opening as she reached up to pull whatever it was off of her head.
"Bacon? Where in the Hell did Bacon come --"
*plop* *plop* *plop*
Cassidy scrambled to her feet as she watched pieces of bacon start landing all over the garden. She turned around and looked everywhere she could, but she didn't see anyone that looked like they could be close enough to be throwing bacon at her.
Though, having bacon thrown at her would be something new and bizarre for her to tell her brother about. She had yet to have food thrown at her for any reason, but this didn't mean that it couldn't happen.
When she didn't see anyone, she reached out with her power to see if someone was nearby and they were shielding themselves from her. No, she didn't find anyone that way, either. She shook her head and looked up at the sky as a last resort. Because, really the idea that it would be *raining* bacon was --
*plop* *plop* *plop*
--ridiculous.
That thought was followed up by several pithy curses as she pulled the stuff off of her face.
"How in the hell is it possible that it's raining BACON of all things? It's not even logical!"
That would be when the sky opened up and slices of bacon came pouring down on her and for as far as the eye could see.
After fighting unsuccessfully to get it all off of her, she realized that until she got inside and away from this weird and illogical rain, she was going to be covered in bacon. Hoping that there wouldn't suddenly be a pack of hungry animals or humans that started chasing her, she put a shield around herself and started running back to the dorms.
Too bad that even after a shower and cleaning her clothes and washing her hair twice, she could have sworn she still smelled like bacon.
"This place is just weird."
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“...why would you need a whole store to sell pears?” Hank Venture replied, eyeing Freddy with a stare that Freddie didn’t quite like.
“You know, for Pear Pads, laptops--” Freddie said.
“Why would pears need laptops? Pears can’t use computers. Are you feeling okay?” Hank said.
“No, not for pears,” Freddie quickly explained. “I meant...” He realized this probably wouldn’t get anywhere fast, so he tried something different. “Hey, do you sell any Fat Cakes?”
“Does this look like a bakery to you?” Hank said. “Sheesh, it’s like you were born in a barn or raised by wolves or born by barn wolves. This is HankCo, and here we sell... other things.”
Freddie could hardly believe this guy. But then again, he’d dealt with T-Bo at the Groovy Smoothie enough to know how to deal with this sort of salesman. He shook his head, but then paused. “Wait, so you’re saying there’s no such thing as Fat Cakes here?”
“While I am definitely sure cakes will make you fat, we don’t have any, no,” Hank said.
Freddie got a huge grin on his face. “Sam is going to flip! Arriba!” He went up to the counter and pulled out his wallet. Hey, while this whole new world thing was definitely different, but if it meant that Sam was without her precious Fat Cakes, well that was just something he was going to enjoy. A lot.
“So you asked for something, and then are happy we don’t have it,” Hank said. “Wow, and people think I’m strange.”
Then Freddie got a great idea. “Hey, Hank? Have you ever wanted to be on a popular webshow?”
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The girl was now sitting up on Natalie's bed, momentarily appeased with a few of her anime figurines, while Natalie herself stood by her desk, still trying to make sense of both the situation at hand, and what to do with it. She'd heard about this happening before, so she couldn't say she was being caught completely unawares, but this was still.. new.
There had to be a special item to be gained from this, or something. "Where's your dad?" she tried asking the girl.
"Dunnooo," came the answer, sing-songed. "Mebbe napping? Daddy likes napping."
Whoever Mr. Pilgrim was, he was starting to sound less and less like someone Natalie could see herself dating, let alone having an actual child with. She folded her arms over her chest, trying to come up with a way to deal. She didn't need to think too long, though. "Ooooh, ooh, Mommy!" the girl exclaimed, suddenly, big brown eyes all wide as she looked up at Natalie. "I forgot! I saw a man in the hall! A man with glasses! We should go tell Uncle Wallace! Uncle Wallace will give us candy if we tell him 'bout a man wearing glasses!"
Wallace. Of course. Why did Wallace Wells have to seem so tightly linked to her life? Still, annoying as it was, Natalie saw a chance of maybe pawning the kid off to someone else, here. "I hope I'm at least going to get good experience points for this," she muttered under her breath before scooping the child up into her arms. "Come on, then. Let's go see your Uncle Wallace."
But if he'd so much as vaguely mention anything about anyone being horse-faced, Natalie was going to kick him through a wall.
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***********
At night I can hear everything going on. When I was twelve an accident spilled a radioactive isotope into my eyes blinding me but at the same time increasing my other senses. I can smell the pizza being dropped off in the lobby. My sense of taste is so acute I can still remember the taste of the pastry I had from J,GOB this morning. And my hearing? Oh yeah. I can hear it all.
So as night falls in the dorm the sounds begin to filter into my room. Up on the fifth floor Bobby is introducing Rosella to the wonderful world of Bitterwoman. In the HVAC ducts I hear the clicking echoes of a gremlin as it makes its way to Ben Skywalker's room. On the same floor as me I can hear the sounds of two boys named "Billy" and "Lucas" making out and removing clothing as another person somewhere else smashes her keyboard in frustration.
And in my own room there's a boy who snores. Normally this isn't a problem but apparently being recently punched in the face by a girl has caused issues with his sinuses. Just when you think he has settled into a regular rhythm he stops, snorts and suddenly there's a new symphony of noise ringing through the room.
After an hour of this I need to clear my head. I get up without making a sound, letting Topher sleep away. I put on an all black outfit and pull a knit cap over my forehead and eyes so no one can get a look at my face. I head up to the roof and let the wind wash over me before I jump and head out into the night.
The rooftops in Fandom's buildings aren't as high as the ones in Hell's Kitchen. The town is nowhere near as loud. I can hear the individual conversations as I go from roof to roof. At the trooper's station I hear a electronically filtered voice complain about being called "Ralph." Over at the bar I hear my ethics teacher singing a song from a broadway show about an orphan. (Note to self: Don't raise my hand in class tomorrow.)
But as I leap from rooftop to rooftop I feel it all drop away. The sounds, noises, smells and tastes and for a brief moment of time I can be free of it all.
By the time I get back to the dorm things have settled down. The TV is off on the fifth floor. Over in Ben's room I can hear Ender whispering something about it "not being so bad." Billy and Lucas have finally fallen asleep together (though that one person keeps keysmashing for some reason).
So I get into bed and (uselessly) close my eyes and fall asleep.
And possibly plot Topher's murder if he doesn't stop snoring
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And Topher in my head wants me to let you know that he has a sinus condition, okay.
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Though I'm sure she'll deny it.
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Then the door to her room opened, much to Dorothy's surprise. She looked over, ready to see who had come into her room.
"Whoa, wait who are you?" said Hanna Marin, really not expecting someone else to be in her room.
"I'm Dorothy," she introduced, not minding the interruption at all. "Dorothy Gale, from Kansas. I was told this was my new room."
Hanna nodded. "Hanna Marin," she said, and held out her hand. "I should have remembered I was getting a roommate."
"Well, it can't be helped now," Dorothy said, smiling. She got up from the bed and shook her new roommate's hand. "Though I don't think we'll have any problems at all. Unless you're secretly a wicked witch."
"I'm not a witch at all," Hanna said, shaking her head. "So this place isn't coming off as weird to you?"
"It's absolutely amazing," Dorothy said, eyes lit up like a pinball machine that had awarded a free game. "I never thought I'd see the future. I mean, I've seen a lot of wonderful things in the past, witches and emerald cities and woodsmen made of tin, but this is something all together new." Her enthusiasm was bubbly.
"I--" Hanna was interrupted by a suddenly rattle behind the vent in the room.
"What was that?" Dorothy asked, as she got down to crawl over to the vent in order to investigate.
"Oh, it's probably a gremlin," Hanna admitted.
Dorothy got her little fingers around the edges of the vent, and pulled it off so she could get a better look. "Gremlin?"
A green thing, with wide eyes and nasty, pointy teeth stared back at her.
"Careful, they bite!" Hanna said.
The gremlin made the mistake of charging forward towards Dorothy. The only thing the gremlin got in return was the vent slammed shut right in its face.
"They don't seem so nice," Dorothy said, pressing her back against the vent just to be safe. "But they definitely make this place a bit more like Oz." Which made Dorothy just all that much happier to be there.
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The three blonde ladies turned and stared daggers at Jamie. Jamie of course ignored them in blissful ignorance.
“As many of you hero-types might be aware, the telepath has the ability not only to read minds but to also control them as well. Now granted, you can spend years of training to find a way to block these mind snooping pests-”
Yes. That would be more evil looks coming from the Fandom Cuckoos. And yes, Jamie still ignored them.
“-however I have found an easier method. If you wish avoid having your mind read? Just think of annoying things. For instance, right now? I’m going to think of a series of incremental prime numbers.”
Jamie then struck a pose that supposedly looked thoughtful. Sookie began to look more annoyed. As did Karla. Emma looked like she was going to have kittens.
“See? Look they are now-”
Jamie winced a second or two and then shot a look at Emma. “Okay. Now if the prime numbers trick doesn’t work? Then you have to bring out the big guns. If any of you are backed into a corner? Just use this image to bail you out.”
At which point Jamie clicked on his computer and an image (”http://www.blogcdn.com/www.comicsalliance.com/media/2010/10/deadpool-marvel-girl-costume.jpg”) appeared on the screen behind him.
“And if that’s too horrendous for you I do have a picture of Wolverine in a thong that... OW! OW! OW! OW!”
Yes. That would be the Fandom Cuckoos sitting behind Jamie and looking smug as Jamie tried to pull his own hair off his head.
“OW!”
Really smug.
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*
“Isn’t this place absatively amazingly fantastic?” Pinkie Pie gushed as she strolled down the streets of Fandom, staring around at all the signs and waving a cheerful front hoof at passersby. Being
NPCFandomites, they managed to mostly keep the staring to a minimum. Not that Pinkie Pie would have noticed if they were standing around gaping at her; ponies stood around and gaped at her all the time.In answer, Gummy the baby alligator attempted to eat her hair.
“Oh hello there!” Pinkie called to the tall lady by the flower shop. “I hope you’re having an extra specially fantabulous day today!” She trotted over and sniffed at one of the displays. “These smell delicious! I’ll have to come by some time for lunch!” And she was off again before the tall lady had a chance to do more than wave in return.
“Oh, look, Gummy! I wonder what they sell in here?” She pranced up to a barn-ish looking building and hopped up on her hind legs to peer inside. “Whatever it is, it must be superduper exciting! Just look at all the ponies hanging about!” She waved to her fellow ponies, then frowned slightly when they didn’t wave back. She waved harder, her hoof blurring with speed, her whole body vibrating with the action. One of the fillies blinked at her, but she didn’t even stop chewing her food for long enough to say hi. Pinkie Pie pouted and dropped back down on all fours.
“Well, that’s strange. They don’t seem very friendly, do they, Gummy?” She brightened back up, her eyes going wide. “Or maybe they’re just shy! I bet they don’t get a lot of new ponies around these parts, what with all the strange furless bears wandering around. I’m sure once they get to know me we’ll all be the bestest of friends!” She pranced around excitedly in a circle. “THAT’S IT!” she cried. “I’ll throw an icebreaker party! And invite all the ponies and furless bears and rabbits and monkeys and frogs and turtles and birds and buffalos and gazelles and teal deers and mongooses and flower sellers in Fandom!”
Gummy fell off her back and landed on his head.
“That’s right,” Pinkie assured him. “I’ll invite all the alligators, too. Oh, this will be EVER so much fun!” She sat back on her haunches and lifted her front hooves, counting items off on nonexistent fingers. “We’ll have cake and salad and flowers and apple cupcakes and punch and music and pin-the-tail-on-the-pony and streamers and BALLOONS!” She pressed her front hooves to her cheeks with a gasp. “Oh, there’s ever so much to do! There’s invitations and decorations and party hats to buy. . . . I’ll have to get my students to help, of course, it’ll be such a great way for them to learn! Princess Celestia will be so proud of me, why I bet she’ll throw a Great Galloping Gala all for me in my honor, and everyone will be there, Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash and Apple Jack and Rarity and Fluttershy and EVERYONE, and all my new furless bear friends will be there and how do you suppose they lost their fur? Maybe it’s always summer. Can you imagine that, Gummy? No winter at all, then you’d never have to clean up winter to make way for spring! Hello Mr. God of Biscuits! You must come to my party!”
And so she went, on and on and on, as she rushed back to her apartment, pausing every so often to wave at another townsperson and invite them to what was shaping up to be the most amazingest, extra-special Ice Breaker party in the history of ever.
Fandom would never know what hit it.
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*
Vincent brightened up when he saw who walked through the door of the diner, setting aside the sea salt shaker he was filling to go meet his customer at the counter. “Sheriff -- ah, sorry, Jack. How are you?”
Jack Carter, teen clone, student, and definite non-sheriff hopped up on one of the stools at the counter. “Vince. You can still call me ‘Sheriff’, you know.”
“But you’re so Zoe-sized!” Vincent answered, eyes wide. “Well, what can I get you? I just got a shipment in of the most tender little local venison steaks you’ve ever tasted.”
“Wow, as . . . tasty as that sounds, I’ll have a cheeseburger.” Jack said. “Medium. With ketchup.”
Vincent gave a long suffering sigh, signalling to his sous chef to start preparing the cheeseburger he’d known Jack was going to order. “Hope springs eternal.”
“I know it does,” Jack assured him. “So, you’ve settled in well.”
“I have!” Vincent brightened back up. “I’m discovering some amazing new delicacies. A young lady came in just the other day, asked for ‘spaghetti tacos’ of all things. Maybe you know her, small blonde named Sam?”
Jack smiled tightly. “Ah, yes. She’s a little scary.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. She’s no Jo. But she has a very healthy appetite. I haven’t seen a girl that size pack away so much ham since GD was testing that diet pill.” As he talked, Vincent put together a tall, steaming cup of of his special Vinspresso, just how Jack liked it.
“That one might have been before my time,” said Jack. He nodded to the wall by the end of the counter. “What’ve you got there?”
Vincent looked over and smiled. “You remember my old Eureka wall of fame?” he asked. “Well, seems when my cafe and the diner melded it turned into a Fandom wall of fame. See, there’s Principal Winchester and VP Deadpool, and that head in a tube is apparently one of the former principals. That walking suit of space-armor is one of the former sheriffs. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yeah.” Jack took his coffee and wandered over for a closer look. “Who’s this lady freaking out at one of the squirrels?”
“Former diner manager.”
Jack nodded. “I thought she looked familiar.” He kept looking, pointing out various photos of school and town events (including what looked like a picnic being ravaged by a giant dragon made of jello) before coming to a list written in chalk on a board on the far wall. “And, uh, what’s this?
“Oh, that’s the events pool! We’re taking bets on what will happen next. You want me to put you down for something?”
“You got a category for turning into an eight year old girl?”
Vincent blinked. “I’ll put you down for ‘de-aged’ and ‘genderswap’.” The sous chef rang the bell to say Jack’s burger was ready, and Vincent hurried over to retrieve it. “Here we go! One cheeseburger, and a side of Madame Le Pommes Frites!”
Jack stared at him blankly.
“Madame le Pompadour?” Vincent asked. “Chief mistress to Louis XV?”
Jack raised his eyebrows. He reached for a bottle of ketchup. Vincent rolled his eyes heavenward.
“Why do I even try?”
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The first hint that she had that this was not your normal town and obviously not your normal school was that there was what appeared to be a bar there. There was no one at the door checking IDs like she was used to seeing on TV and in New York, so out of curiosity, she decided to step inside. The worst that could happen was that they'd tell her to leave for being underage, right?
Feeling bolstered by courage she wasn't even sure she really had, she went into the bar called Caritas. There were a few people that looked like they were around her age in there already. Shaking her head in bemusement, she approached the bar and made herself comfortable on one of the stools. The bartender came down the bar to her and she smiled.
"What can I get you," he asked in a bored tone.
Chloe started to ask him for a soda when she felt that strange prickling sensation along her skin. She had begun to recognize it and turned to see what she had accidentally brought with her this time.
The sight that greeted her caused her to squeak and almost fall from her stool.
Chloe looked from the bartender in shock back to the four zombies that were watching her with what she assumed to be smile. "I didn't do it," she stammered. "I just came in to ask for a job! I didn't mean to bring them. Stop. You guys need to go back--"
She probably would have fallen if it wasn't for the fact that the bartender had grabbed her by the collar and held her in place.
"Don't freak out, girl," he said. "They won't hurt you. They're the band."
"B-band?" She managed to get out as she stared at them.
"Yeah. Band. You know, they perform music and sometimes sing." The bartender was looking at her like she was an idiot.
Chloe moaned in embarrassment and dropped her face in her hands. That was so not the best impression to make on somebody that she was hoping would hire her to work for them.
As the bartender moved down the bar to get her something to drink, one of the zombies came over to her carrying his microphone. Chloe looked at him in confusion, not sure what he was going to do. Could she make zombies go away that she hadn't woken up in the first place?
"So, you make zombies and call them forth or something?" He asked.
"Yeah... why?" No point in telling a zombie that she didn't have control over her budding powers yet.
"We're in need of a new bass player. Or even a couple of girlfriends and --"
Chloe banged her head on the bar. It was going to be a long year.
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Well, so far, he was doing fairly well for himself, wasn't he? Right. He took a swig of his lager, then set it back down.
"Not that that's a bad thing. I'm just not from it myself. I'm British--" he laughed, "--but of course you can tell 'coz I have the accent. Not that you don't have an accent - you have a lovely American accent. I almost wish I had a set of pipes like yours, with that accent."
Okay, Jeffrey. You were getting a bit weird now. You know how this goes: you keep going now, you lose your momentum. You start saying strange things. You start lying. This is a good place to stop. Let her talk.
"But I'm sure that'll work out fine once I'm here longer," he said. He was getting inane. He realised this. Quickly. Stop, abort, while he was still sounding sane! ... then again, was he? How was it going to work out? He had just started talking about pipes. "...Not in the way where I'm planning to steal someone's pipes," he hastened to add, "Just, you know, generally... drifting... accent-wise. Your pipes do that all on their own, don't they, adjusting to new places... you don't really need to perform any surgery to manage that, I mean, er, not that I was thinking about it-- sorry, I'm starting to talk rubbish now, I was trying to avoid that, I swear. I'm not all about... surgeries and pipes, I was just making conversation, it's-- Oh god."
He had been doing so well, too, and now, god, what must she be thinking?!
"Jeff?" Jamie asked, sliding into the seat in front of him. "Who are you talking to?"
"The girl," he said, dropping his forehead to the table.
Jamie eyed him. "Which girl?" he asked.
"The one with the hair," Jeff said.
"I've seen a couple of those. Describe the girl?"
"Round," Jeff muttered to the table, "With hair."
"And?"
"Blonde," he said. "Very, very blonde. And a gun. A very definite... gun. Oh god, what if she's planning to shoot me?"
"Nobody's planning to shoot you," Jamie said, looking up and past him and spotting the back of-- "Hey, Cindy!"
"Don't do that!" Jeff hissed, and got up, shaking his glass of beer in the process. "She might hear!"
"So?"
"And then she might shoot me for trying to take her pipes!" Jeff hissed.
Jamie eyed him. "Right," he said. "So HEY, CIND--"
Jeff tackled him to the ground.
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Naturally, he decided to do something about it. Namely calling his father figure to complain.
“What do you mean you signed me up for it? I don’t need Ethics!” He paused, then glared at the phone, listening. “Look, just because I occasionally take some things without asking...Shut up. Fine.”
Annoyed, he hung up the phone. If Mac was going to be like that, he’d go talk to the office and see what happened. They couldn’t force him to take the class, could they?
Unfortunately, the office staff could most accurately be called spectacularly unhelpful.
“We have a note in your file, Mr. Ryan. It says your schedule is not to be changed.” The woman glanced up over her glasses at him. “At all. It also says you’re to take Ethics until you pass. Interesting.”
Richie glared at the woman. The moose in the corner snorted and Richie shot it a nervous glance. “Why is there a moose?” he asked after a long pause. “Moose don’t belong in offices. They belong in Canada. Why can’t I drop the class?”
“I have you marked down for remedial Ethics,” the office worker said sweetly. “It says here that you know why. Why don’t you tell me?”
Sighing heavily, Richie turned and left,, muttering to himself. He was still muttering when he got to Caritas and ordered a drink. The bartender gave him one of those bartender looks after the second drink was downed and the muttering had yet to abate. The kind that said “I really don’t care what your problem is but I’ll listen anyway because it’s in my job description.” At least that was how Richie chose to interpret it.
“So, my uh, I guess he’s my guardian legally. The guy who sent me here. Decided I need to take an Ethics class because I’m some sort of juvenile deliquent. Which technically I am. But still. I mean, you break into one guy’s jewelry store and he doesn’t press charges in exchange for you not telling the world he runs around with a sword and maybe there’s decapitations involved. Pretend you didn’t hear that. Although who are you gonna tell, this place is crazy and your house band are all undead and my roommate is a legit alien from outer space. Anyway. He’s decided that since I’m a thief I need some remedial Ethics. Well, the thieving and the breaking and entering and possible the habitual lying. He’s said it all before. I have a list, somewhere.”
The man on the stool next to him smiled as he stood and turned to leave. “I look forward to seeing you in Ethics class tomorrow morning, Mister Ryan. Be sure to pay your bartender. I’ll know if you don’t.”
“That’s the Ethics teacher?” Richie asked the bartender, and groaning when he received a nod in response. “Oh hell. I hate my life.”
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Really, it wasn't so bad, being told again and again that he'd stumbled over half a century into the future when he'd agreed to take that teaching job near Baltimore. Baltimore wasn't a bad place, really. They had that whole... appreciation for the arts... thing... going for them. If you squinted. They didn't seem any more interested in buying his sculptures here than they did back in Maine in 1953, after all. But hey, the future itself kind of made it all worthwhile. Better plumbing. Better phone systems when they weren't completely going nuts and redirecting calls all over the island. Better espresso machines.
You know. When Dean could actually use his espresso machine.
"Come on," he half-crooned, half pleaded, as he contemplated just picking it up and shaking it. "I know you work. You worked yesterday. I saw you work. I drank out of you."
Which he was well aware would sound pretty wrong if he wasn't talking to a kitchen appliance, and, really, probably sounded weird even though he was.
"I have class in half an hour. All I want is some espresso. Not even, like, a lot of espresso. A shot. Maybe two."
The espresso machine was stalwart in its refusal.
"I could clean you. Would cleaning you out again make any difference at all?"
He was pretty certain that the thing burbled at him. Or at least made a somewhat disconcerting squishing sound, which was making him start to wonder about just how great the technology of the future really was, after all. He raised an eyebrow at it. It shut up.
He stared at it.
It sat there.
"I don't have the time for this today, you know," he intoned, because this was what his life had apparently been reduced to. "The Perk is on the way. They have espresso. It's actually not too shabby. You can be replaced."
Nothing. Not even one of the weird squishing sounds that it had been making at him for the better part of the past hour. Maybe he'd triumphed? Maybe he'd managed to intimidate the thing into submission? Or maybe it was a truce, brought on by the knowledge that he wasn't afraid to go courting other, more reliable sources of hyperstrong caffeine if he found himself wanting.
He pressed the button one more time. The machine sloshed about a bit, and then ground to a halt all over again, sounding for all the world as though it thought that perhaps Dean was attempting to assassinate it with his crazy hot water and ground-up beans.
Fine. He'd play the espresso machine's little game. He'd grab some fresh beans, open the compartment at the top, and...
… Jump back as a tiny blob of ink squirted out of the compartment, followed by an emphatic waving of tiny angry tentacles, peeking out from where they were nestled underneath the beans.
Yeah. This island was weird. Dean had gotten the memo. But nobody had ever really prepared him for every espresso machine on the island being commandeered by tiny baby octopus...es... Octopi? Octopods?
Today was an instant coffee day. And his students would just have to deal with him looking dead on his feet as he steered them around the finer points of plastic-bag macramé with a tiny caffeine-high octopus perched on his shoulder.
[It was about three minutes after I hit send on the app that I realized I really should have done something with the radio squirrels, instead.]
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You might think this sort of thing would be easier to trust. You'd think. But Jonothon's experience with actually eating the food that occasionally cropped up around the island was hovering somewhere right around absolutely nil. There had been far too many years spent without a mouth, glowering darkly at people as they enjoyed chocolate rain or pudding or... lord. Jellybeans or whatever. He'd always been hell-bent on forgetting the specifics and getting on with his life after the fact, while making a terrible fuss about the food that was there, while it was there.
And now, here it was. Pie. Shoved into every nook and cranny of the theatre, stacked neatly in the control booth, placed with only the utmost care on each and every seat in the house. And each one, as if the island was announcing that it was extra special treasure placed here by the leprechauns themselves, had a miniature rainbow sprouting from the top of it, presumably so that you'd realize it was there before getting an arse coated in pie.
And the variety! Even if Jono was inclined to sample what the island had provided, he'd hardly know where to start. Dark chocolate Irish cream tart, Irish Michaelmas pie, rhubarb and raspberry... He wasn't entirely convinced about the authentic-Irishness of each pie, but even he could admit that they all looked delicious.
It took the better part of the afternoon, weaving around apple and butter pecan and something that looked suspiciously as though the island had just dumped a bunch of foil-wrapped chocolate coins into a pie crust, but eventually Jonothon's resolve cracked. He knew it wasn't the greatest of ideas when he backtracked, looking for one that he'd spotted earlier while he was trying to clean out the sound booth so that he could record some instrumentals for the chorus to take home and rehearse to. But he could hardly be expected to keep resisting.
And at the end of the day, when Troy was taking the actors through their notes after another successful rehearsal, Jono would swear up and down that finding himself suddenly stuffed into full leprechaun garb, right down to the stupid green hat and the little buckles on his boots, was worth every last bite of that mince pie, so help him.
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Bo
Xander (teacher app) | Xander (townie app, before we settled on running MCA)
Francine
Eliza
Door
Illyria (App 1, which I withdrew in favor of Door) | Illyria (App 2)
Emmett (Which actually got played-out in game)
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She didn't turn at the noise from the kitchen area now; she was too engrossed in watching the man and woman on the impressively large screen systematically tear down every item of clothing their young guest was wearing before dumping it into a bin and (in one memorable, excessively moth-eaten case) setting fire to it. Really? These people cared that much about fashion? She'd heard of a border planet that had regressed to the state where the wrong choice of footwear could be taken as an act of war, so she shouldn't be surprised, she supposed, but on Earth?
Then again, this wasn't her Earth (if you could say such a thing about a planet she'd never set foot on even in her own time) and it was that fact which had kept Cally glued to the sofa for the past few hours, alternately amused and aghast, soaking in the culture of a society that was - to her - centuries gone, in the fairly vain hope that it would distract her from a future she might never see again.
What did, finally, draw her attention away from the screen was the squeaking. Not the squeaking of an un-oiled door, but that of an animal. No, animals; there was more than one tone, and it was coming from the kitchen counter. She made a face as she rose to walk over; Cally was hardly squeamish, but the idea of rats or mice running about in the food was less than appetizing.
But the squeaks weren't coming from mice -- not unless Earth in this century had furless pink mice that walked on their back legs and wore tiny, tiny versions of clothing that Clinton and Stacy would no doubt be burning if they could get their hands on it. If so, one of those mice was doing an absolutely dead-on impression of Cally's roommate. She'd recognize that bright yellow Come on, get happy -- or fuck off and die t-shirt anywhere; even if the lettering was far too small for her to read it now, there was still the leering smiley-face.
Surely she could be forgiven for staring, even as the squeaking increased in volume and intensity, and all three tiny figures -- half the size, actually, of your average mouse -- began waving their arms and jumping around? She did eventually crouch until her face was level with the counter and ask, "What happened to you?"
One of them clapped her hands over her ears; the other two were too busy falling over and rolling across the counter at the force of her breath.
She winced and wondered if she'd do more harm than good by offering a finger to help her roommate up. Judging by the finger she was already being offered by said roommate, the answer was yes.
//Sorry. What happened to you?// At least her telepathy was good for something here.
Not, of course, for receiving any sort of reply, which meant that she now had to determine if the wildly exaggerated gestures the three of them were making at her meant "We got lost somewhere on the sixth floor and came out through a hole in the cupboard like this. Get us back there so we can fix it!" or, well, "fuck off and die."
Cally was fairly sure that in her roommate's case, the answer was both, but the fact that they stopped squeaking when she offered them a ride upstairs on her shoulder seemed promising, at least.
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From the corridor outside the classroom, scuffling, shouting, and the sound of a police siren could be heard, before Baldrick, looking even more unkempt than usual (pity, if you will, the poor sod who has known one Mister S. Baldrick long enough to be able to discern the existence of such a condition) and smelling strongly of chocolate and dung (only the chocolate was unusual) burst into the room. "Hide me, Mister B! Hide me! The coppers are after me!"
Edmund spared him a single, unblinking glance, then turned to face his students again. "Baldrick is on no account to be taken as an example of today's topic. You are also on no account to ask him what happened before he arrived here, because God forbid, he might tell us, forcing me to slit my throat out of boredom, and this is a new cravat."
"I'm serious, Mister Blackadder! They're going to arrest me and throw me in the cells until I'm old and grey and my beard's long enough that I can dangle it out the window and my poor old mum will have to shinny up it to sneak in and visit me!"
There was another beat where Edmund didn't look at him. He looked, instead, at the row of teenagers directly in front of him, and muttered, "An A for the week for the first one of you to hit him directly between the eyes with your shoe. Extra credit if you've been walking a dog this morning."
Then he turned to Baldrick (ducking to avoid any attempts at the extra credit). "As heavenly as that scenario sounds, Balders, it's not going to happen."
"It's not? Why not? Have you got a really good place to hide me?"
"There's room behind that lardbottom at the back of the class for you, the Pope, a family of bears and all but three of Lady Edith Hamilton's army of lovers, but that's not what I meant. It won't happen firstly because the day you grow a beard longer than two inches is the day the things living in it finally rise up and throttle you with it because they can't bear the stench any longer, secondly because your mother is on the other side of the ocean and hasn't got the good sense required to step over a mud puddle without drowning, and thirdly because the police force on this island is more incompetent at catching criminals -- if we can call you that -- than they are at passing the chocolate shop without stopping in for an hour."
That would, as his moldy, rotten luck would have it, of course be the moment when Samuel Vimes, accompanied by two troopers, stepped into the room.
"Sorry, I'm afraid I missed that; something about incompetence?"
"Yes, and that's the last time I allow Baldrick to guest lecture in my class, I assure you, Sheriff. Really, the things that come out of his mouth. Apologize at once, Baldrick!"
Edmund, meanwhile, would be taking a seat behind the lardbottom at the back of the class.
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"Seriously?" she said to no one in particular. "Don't I have enough to deal with? I mean, my mom sent me away, my friends are in a whole other state, there's a bitchy freak taunting me, and have you seen what this humidity is doing to my hair? Can't I just have one s'more in peace?"
That's when the creature appeared, looking up at her. It held its hand out toward her, revealing the marshmallow.
Hanna gasped in horror. "What the hell are you? A gnome or something?"
The creature shook its head in confirmation, still holding the marshmallow out to her.
"Ew! No way. I can't be sure of where you've been," Hanna said dubiously. "You're a freakin' garden gnome! You probably hang out in mud huts singing stupid songs about unicorns and rainbows because you can't get dates."
The gnome tilted its head at her, confused and sad by her reaction. She could swear it was giving her a wibbly stare of doom. "Fine. The date thing was way harsh. I'm sorry.
"You sure know how to milk the puppy dog look for what it's worth, don't you?" She smiled softly, taking the marshmallow back. "Thanks."
The gnome nodded, gave her a comforting smile, and headed back out into the woods.
Hanna let out a long suffering sigh. "Great, now I'm hallucinating a badly dressed woodland creature that feels sorry for me, and I'm not even drunk. And I'm talking to myself."
How pathetic.
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"DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE ON TATOOINE?!" Ahh, the angry man in the cloak had finished cursing in some obscure language and had switched back to English in order to properly berate Trick. Or, more specifically, Trick's current employers. "SAND. SAND EVERYWHERE. MY ASS IS RAW FROM ALL THE DAMN SAND. I SWORE I'D NEVER GO BACK THERE--AND YET PORTALOCITY SAW FIT TO STRAND ME THERE FOR THREE DAYS WHILE I WAITED FOR A TRANSFER!"
On the whole, Trick would rather have dealt with the swamps and mines. Especially since it wasn't even nine in the morning yet and there was already a line. He didn't think any of them were here to tell him he was doing a good job. After the swirly-cloak guy was a dark-haired woman complaining about hypothermia from an island filled with toys that tried to sneak away in her bag and a sandy-haired guy who used thee's and thou's to bitch about his time in a...Swiss Taco Bell?
The less said about the fellow in red who'd gleefully accosted him outside the store to ask if he knew Santa Claus and to remind 'the fat and jolly bastard about their agreement re: no Dora toys under the tree' the better.
"Yes, sir, I understand that getting a rash on your unmentionables is quite inconvenient--"
"INCONVENIENT ISN’T THE WORD I’D USE--"
By the time he was done with this damn job, Dugal was going to owe *him.* It was all Trick could do not to get his special kit out, open a vein, and start writing “Work, Portalocity. Work, dammit.” But from what he could tell it would take a lot more than the powers of a blood sage to make that happen. He could only bend reality to his whims—it would require something much more powerful than that to get this company to stop screwing up.
By the end of the day, all Trick wanted to do was go to the nearest bar and drown out this entire day. Or maybe just drown. Dying would be a good reason not to go back to the office tomorrow, right? With any luck, he could just slip in, get a bottle of something very stiff, and forget that today ever happened.
On the bright side, he’d probably already seen the worst that this island of humans could throw at him, right?