__________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Ten: The Art of Mimicry and the Woes of Angst
__________________________________________________________________________________
The darkness was . . . dark. And for an extra measure, it was filled with little stars and Moombas in ballet slippers. As her mind groggily swam back to consciousness, Dana found herself wondering how they could possibly squeeze those tiny little slippers on such massive feet. Didn't those things pinch?
"What do you know," a voice said, "Awake at last."
Dana twitched, opened her eyes, and immediately wished she hadn't. Her entire body ached as though she'd been trampled by the Lost Number . . . even though she knew that it had been two weeks since the big red-purple monster had gone on his stomping spree. (Campus rumor had run that the appearance of the Moogle Last Number, a bizarre little creature who held the University's record for least amount of student-manglings- zero, due to the fact that he was spending all his time trying to derive an ultimate mathematical formula for the universe- had driven his namesake's physical half insane, inspiring it to attempt the squashing of every student in the University. Poor Norbert had spent six days in the Infirmary getting his stuffing replaced.)
But if the Number hadn't lost it again, why did she feel like she'd collided with Dumbo on skis?
"We're getting a reading on the cephalograph," said another, deeper, voice.
"Hmmm," said the first one. "Notch it down two hundred and check the emanations. Are we talking Mako activity, or just a concussed cerebellum?"
"Negative on that, Boss. Readings coming through clear. She's fully conscious, if a bit . . . worse for the wear."
"And the erastoid cartomologusion?"
"Normal. She'll feel a bit green for a few days, though."
There was a splorching sound, and Dana's skin began to itch.
"Whoopsie."
"What did I tell you about literalism, Doctor?"
"Sorry, Boss. It was an accident, you know-"
"Just give me the smelling salts, and keep your mouth closed. We don't need an automatic Chrono Trigger crossover every time you write 'Frog in her throat' on a report."
"Sephiroth and Magus got along famously, though," a new voice interjected. "Started trading stories about incompetent evil minions. Took Lucca, Robo, and Chrono to get him to come back."
"Never mind that now. Hellooo? I know you're awake, Miss Ebersol, so stop pretending. How do you feel?"
It took a few moments, but Dana's brain somehow managed to communicate a command to her voice. She twitched, licked her lips, and YEEEOWWWwwwww wished she hadn't. "Like cra-" she began hoarsely, but remembered the dangers of careless metaphors and amended it to a simple "Lousy."
"Well, I'm not surprised," said the first voice, the one that had been called 'Boss' by the other. Female, definitely, and rather familiar. The tinge of sarcasm wasn't unusual either. Dana's eyelids batted- not the alluring flutter of Jade Shrinesealer, but the common-or-garden painful motion of a person who isn't quite sure if beams of light or very sharp pointy objects are currently impacting her corneas.
A blob of white and brown was leaning over her, two large circles of bright light glinting ominously from the upward end. Dana blinked again, and the object began to resolve itself into the familiar lines of a rather bemused Lucrecia, glasses perched on the end of her nose. The scientist's dark brown hair was tucked into a rather haphazard bun, and she had a thermometer stuck behind one ear; in short, she looked busy, professional, and slightly harried. Still, an envious thought flitted across Dana's mind: Why can't I look like that, huh?
"Eyes wide," Lucrecia said, and gently but firmly pried apart the lids on Dana's left eye with two fingertips, shining a penlight into the dazed fanwriter's retinas. Satisfied with the reaction, she repeated the process with the other eye, snapped the penlight off, and made a note on a clipboard.
"A few burst blood vessels, but nothing exceeding normal levels," she dictated to a nurse, ticking off something on the paper. "Temporary verdant skin tone induced by Dr. Shinra Flunky #4-" a glare at one of the many identical doctors, evidently number four, who flinched and attempted to hide his face behind a blood-pressure gauge "-lasted approximately forty-seven seconds. Good results; the literalism spell from ClicheCamp may be wearing off at last. All in all, Miss Ebersol is remarkably healthy- considering what happened."
"I'm sorry," Dana croaked, made unusually polite by the presence of someone with control of powerful pain relievers, "But what did happen? I remember that crazy ceremony- Lily moving forward- and-"
"Revolution." Lucrecia replied matter-of-factly. "A revolution that lasted fourteen seconds, to be precise. Some of the members of- DROOL, was it?- attempted to seize control of the University, for motives unknown but most likely dirty. But then you, Miss Ebersol, saved the day."
The human brain chooses the most unfortunate moments to go offline. "Whuh?" Dana reasoned intelligently, feeling a sweatdrop form on her temple. Never mind that Final Fantasy doesn't have sweatdrops, dammit- she needed one.
Lucrecia swatted Dana's hair, and the uncanonical feature vanished. "No Author Powers indoors, Miss Ebersol, it's bad for the carpet. Yes, you stopped the rebellion. We're not sure exactly what happened, but we think you attempted to tackle Sephiroth, tripped over the Masamune's scabbard when he dodged, and slammed face-first into Miss Axalia, who was having a Barbarella moment and shouting encouragement to her troops. Such as they were. With the loss of Miss Axalia- as far as we can tell, your perfume asphyxiated her- the will of the mob disappeared, especially once Miss J sent the Mugles in for the mopping-up action."
"I know I'm gonna regret this, but- Mugles?"
The scientist's lips twitched. "Yes. Evidently, someone named 'KoralGaze' wrote a Final Fantasy VII story. Without playing the game. She's responsible for Genova, too, and the genuine article's hopping mad- insisted on being part of the enrollment party, Planet help us. But at any rate, it's good to see you're awake," she continued, tapping her pen against the edge of the clipboard. "Unfortunately, a few seconds after you inadvertantly downed Miss Axalia, you were stepped on by Titan while he was dealing with misses The Ciz and Cendrillo. Then, of course, every Yuffie-derived moogle in the university stampeded SquirrelMooseCometh-"
There was an audible snort from one of the Generic Shinra Doctors.
"Yes, number four, we've know how terrible these names are, and we fully sympathize with your position," Lucrecia said distractedly, making another tick on her clipboard. "No need to rehash that again. As a result of your actions, the staff voted not to ground you until Doomsday for your participation in the student rebellion. Consider yourself lucky; most of the DROOL ilk are assisting Emperor Gestahl in the Magitek labs."
Dana limply rubbed her burning eyes with one hand. "Doesn't sound too bad-" she began, and instantly clapped her mouth shut. If she had learned one thing in less than a month at OFUFF, it was that everything was worse than it sounded. The One-Winged Mangle, for instance.
The scientist pursed her lips, rapidly filling out the forms on her clipboard with a practiced ease. "Oh, it seems innocuous enough," she said, ripping the top sheet off the board and handing it to another random Shinra Flunky. "But you've been unconscious for four days, Miss Ebersol. Apparently, Emperor Gestahl has taken Sephiroth and Seifer Almasy's popularity as a personal insult; he's striving to increase his fanbase by turning himself into a sex symbol. The DROOL members are evaluating his costume changes and giving him makeover advice. I understand that the black and orange leather ensemble went over rather . . . interestingly."
"I've been comatose for four freaking days?!" Another thought, though slower to appear in mind, caused much more damage when Dana found herself picturing Emperor Gestahl in a sexy outfit. The resultant sound, Lucrecia noticed, not only managed to combine several interesting consonantal phrases into one long gargling litany, but also managed to escape Dana's throat while she was simultaneously vomiting into the wastebasket.
"'Fraid so. You haven't missed any classes, though; most lectures were cancelled while the students were drafted to clean up the mess the rebellion left behind." As she spoke, Lucrecia dropped a large bundle of clothes onto the foot of Dana's bed. "They resume today, at 10:00. You have twenty minutes to get dressed and find your way there. Have a nice day."
"Wait a minute!" Dana called as the scientist turned away. "Aren't I sick? Don't I have to stay here for a while?"
Lucrecia made no reply, but her expression peeled the paint off of every wall in the Infirmary. Dana, realizing that discretion was the better part of valor, beat a hasty retreat before Lucrezia and Lucretia started peeling her.
* * *
At the suggestion of Aeris Gainsborough, who alone among the staff seemed to realize that the only way students could learn was if they were alive enough to get to class, course listings (and instructions for avoiding the Moogles' booby-traps) for every assigned schedule were posted in the main hall of the University. Dana, after sprinting down three flights of stairs before realizing that she had her shoes on backwards, limped into the hall at quarter to ten and began examining the papers posted on the walls. She was soon joined by Firefly99, who handed her a crumpled piece of paper.
"Read this for me, would you? That fuzzy jerk Cluod painted my room glorkle and I can't see a damn thing."
Dana examined the schedule, noting with relief that it applied to her as well. She ran her finger down the course listings.
"Tuesday, 10:00. 'Mimesis 101: The art of repetition in order to produce a desired effect.' " Dana read, squinting at the course listing.
"What's it about?" Firefly99 asked.
"Says 'The art of repetition in order to produce a desired effect.'"
"Wasn't that the subhead?"
"Yeah. Must be a printing error."
As they talked, they had ventured into corridor 21G, known as "The Place" by the students in 21F who had to pass through it to get to the bathrooms. As usual with this particular corridor, it turned up in whatever place you happened to look for it. The air had a strange rainbow-shimmery effect, not unlike Kylina of the Darkness's hair- and if Dana had made the connection, she might've realized the danger of the situation. But while she was learning, she had not yet fully recovered from her abrupt encounter with the ground, and the information passed unnoticed.
Adding to the distracting oddness was the fact that every door in 21G was exactly the same. Exactly. And to make matters worse, there were no markings on the walls- or any kind of differences at all- to distinguish between them.
"Which door do we take?" Firefly asked.
"Doesn't matter." Norbert interjected, waddling up beside them. Evidently, the Infirmary had been rather . . . over-enthusiastic . . . in replacing his stuffing. "The whole thing is a spatial disconnect."
"What?" Dana and Firefly chorused, then glared at each other. The silent implication of You stole my line! passed between them. Norbert, who would normally have been slobbering at the prospect of a knock-down drag-out catfight between fangirls, remembered that one of them happened to be related to him and hastily foraged ahead.
"I heared Hojo telling his Moogles about it. These sides of the doors aren't necessarily attached to any given other side- any of them can lead to anywhere within the Corridor 21G microcosm."
"Micro-what?" Firefly asked, looking vaguely lost.
"Don't listen to him. I got lost after 'doors.'" Dana muttered.
"Mimesis 101 is the only thing scheduled for this time and place. Here's hoping-" Norbert opened the first door on the right, and failed to explode or perish in some creatively painful way. "Thank you, god."
* * *
The classroom was spacious and clean, with less of the area's disturbing rainbow effect and minimal rippling in the air. Firefly99 and Dana took the first pair of chairs they saw, while Norbert trundled down all the way to the front row. At first glance, the room looked like every other classroom in the University- chairs, walls, portraits of characters, and a large heavy textbook lying on each desk. It was only after a second that Dana began to notice the room's little . . . oddities.
Everything was the same. And we do mean everything. Each chair had the number 6531 on the arm, and each textbook had the exact same rips, tears, and scribbled pages, with identical off-color graffiti scrawled on each cover. The same full-color portrait of a Zone Eater in the same gilt frame adorned each wall. The only unique thing was the huge pile of tattered 70s clothes slumping in one corner; aside from that, the whole room looked like the result of some incredible all-powerful deity hitting Copy/Paste.
The clock struck 10:00, at that same instant the other three identical clocks on the other three walls did exactly the same. At the tenth rings, the mass of brightly-colored fabric stirred.
"Hello."
It was too high for a tenor, but too low for an alto. Gogo's voice rang perfectly asexual as the impressive mimic unfolded itself from the corner where it had been doing- whatever it was it had been doing.
"Welcome to Mimesis 101- 'The art of Repetition to produce a desired effect.' Taught by myself, Gogo, in the classroom acessible through a door on corridor 21G. Which one, as most of you are hopefully aware, changes constantly. Sometimes all of them do- sometimes none of them do. You will have to, forgive the expression, play the odds.
"Now, as you may have noticed, I have no summons, Moogles, teachers, Sister Rays, or any other form of protection against you. This is because there are, to my knowledge, no Gogo-lusters- only lusters after what many imagine to be my true identity. Trust me, my true identity is no longer comprehensible to you."
Dana yawned and slumped on the desk. The guy- girl?- in the tacky clothes was already getting boring, and the class had just started. Oh, well- with no Moogles around, the pain factor was severely lowered. He/she/it might have a damn weird voice, but that wasn't enough to make her scared of a guy in a technicolor burqua.
Then Gogo yawned back.
It was a yawn, HER yawn- but amplified to a degree that would've made Def Leppard cover their ears. The entire classroom shook, the glass paperweight on Gogo's desk shattered, and identical spiderweb patterns burst onto the faces of all four clocks.
"Q.E.D." Gogo said, a hint of Setzerish smug trickling into its usually expressionless voice. "Mimicry is the ultimate art, the PERFECT art- for it is both every art and no art at the same time. And as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted: the MAIN reason I have no additional protection should be evident to all who played Final Fantasy VI. Show of hands?"
Three hands went up, Norbert's fluffy one among them. "Good. Now, Dana, since you know my curriculum so well that you feel the need to sleep through it, what attack could defeat me?"
"Umm-"
"Trick question. Now, thanks to Miss Ebersol's recalcitrance, I am assigning my first homework- a 10-page essay on how the art of Mimicry ties in whith Buddhist concepts of enlightenment and spiritual transcendence. 10-point font, single spaced, Times New Roman with margins no greater than half an inch. Miss Ebersol, see me after class." Gogo turned back to the rest of the students.
"Now, before I go on any longer, I want to clear up a few issues: first, you will never see what is behind this hood. Second: you will never touch what is under this robe. Third: you will not learn anything more about what lies inside this costume. Am I making myself clear?"
A hand shot up. "Are you Daryl?"
Holy spells do awful things to upholstery. And the person sitting on it. And, thanks to the classroom's tendency to replicate things, everybody in a fifty-yard radius.
* * *
Dana approached the teacher's desk after the rest of the class had filed out. She had considered slipping out, but Gogo always seemed to know what everyone else was thinking. Whatever happened, it couldn't be as bad as glorkle paint.
"Miss Ebersol. Since you chose to sleep in my class, your detention will take place tonight with my TAs."
"You have TAs?"
"Yes. Since they are on my side, my skills encompass theirs and so it isn't necessary for them to be actually present. Saves a lot of time, let me tell you." It drummed heavily gloved fingers on the desktop.
"When tonight?"
"I don't know. You'll find out at the right time."
"Where?"
"Wherever they choose."
Dana should've been stricken with fear- but all that was going through her mind as she left was relief that she wouldn't have to watch the clock.
* * *
"Anybody else think that Mr. Laundry Pile is boring?" another Seifer luster, Jill, was groaning as Dana stepped into the hallway. "God, what a dope. I bet he just hates us 'cuz he can't have sex or anything."
"Who says Gogo can't have sex?" Materia Hunter Buffie opined thoughtfully. "Mimic, right? Maybe it can make itself male or female . . . and it did seem sensitive about whatever is under that robe . . ."
Jill's eyes lit up. "You mean he might be a guy and a girl? Wow . . . like the ultimate bisexual! God, this school really does give you good story ideas! How does 'Go Go Gogo: Love Under the Hood' sound?"
"Meh . . . I think 'Hidden Desires' would sound better. Sexier."
Dana, who had been listening to this conversation with the accompaniment of some very weird mental images, now interjected. "Hey, guys- we better get going. The next class starts in five minutes, and it's all the way at the other end of the damn University!"
"Really?" Materia Hunter Buffie peered at the schedule with interest. "Damn, I gotta go too . . . where are you guys headed?"
Jill made a disgusted face. "Introduction to Aeronautics, with Cid. Highwind. Can you say yuck? He's always smoking those stupid cigarettes, and he makes us diagram engines and valves and stuff. Why do we need to know how that dumb plane works, anyway?"
"Well, it might be useful . . . " Dana paused to think. "Maybe if you write a Cid x Vincent, and they have sex in the engine room. I'll bet all those pounding and vibrating machines might-"
"Don't! Don't! Cold shower!" Jill shrieked, covering her ears. "Keep that up, and you're going to give me story ideas and I'll miss class!"
"So?"
"Cid makes it a point to demonstrate Limit Breaks on late students."
"Ah."
"Got THAT right. Where are you going, Dana?"
Dana consulted her schedule. "Hmmmm . . . 'Dark and Gloomy 101: Angst With Actual Plot Relevance.'"
Materia Hunter Buffie's face lit up. "Lucky! I heard that Vincent's teaching that class, and he is to friggin' die for! Give him a glomp for me, would you?"
"You got it." As the two high-fived, an ominous bell began to toll from somewhere deep in the University. Hearing it, the three students split, heading for their respective classes as fast as they could in high heels. None of them seemed to notice that a patch of the floor that they had been standing on was now shifting slightly, flowing in a dark mass to form a shape out of liquid stone. A shape that almost looked like . . . an evil grin . . . ?
* * *
As the last peal of the bell faded away, Dana skidded to a stop in front of a dusty, rot-flecked door. The seventh floor of the University seemed to be modelled on every dark and gloomy Final Fantasy location combined; the walls were made of cracked, undressed stone, with mold and the occasional spiderweb making dark patterns on the rock, and the floor was a creaky layer of boards covered with packed dirt. Each door coming off the hallway was tall and old, with warped lintels and glowering stone gargoyles exposing gigantic fangs in a nasty smile. The Dark and Gloomy 101 classroom, number 1Z, was marked with tarnished brass digits nailed to the decaying door frame. Swallowing a gulp that rose unbidden in her throat, Dana steeled herself and opened the door.
At least there was no eerie Gogo-like reproduction; that was a reassurance. The good feelings, however, ended there. The room was gloomy and windowless, lit only by flickering tallow candles set in corroded candelabra. Instead of normal tables and chairs, each row was made up of one long bench with an attached desktop that ran the length of the aisle, slightly mouldy and decorated with blackened iron fretwork. The teacher's desk was made of chiselled stone, now patched with the moss that thrived in the cold dankness, and a massive picture swathed in black funerary drapings hung on the wall behind.
The class was already assembled, most sitting uneasily on the edges of their seats and glancing around at the guttering candles. There was no teacher in evidence. Feeling slightly disappointed, and more than a little creeped out, Dana picked her way down the aisle to a bench halfway up the rows, and gingerly lowered herself onto the creaking wood. The room was eerily quiet; even the students, who would normally be yammering a mile a minute, were mainly occupied with glancing around nervously and swatting spiders.
But the moment Dana sat, everything went to hell. A gaunt white hand leapt out of the shadows and clamped down on her shoulder, freezing cold flesh sending chills through her body, and a shhing noise split the dank air as half-a-dozen ornate daggers flew from a dark corner and buried themselves in several students' desks. Dana shrieked and toppled sideways, tearing herself away from the white hand and managing to crack herself on the skull as she fell to the floor and scrambled to crawl under the desk. Cendrillo, who had narrowly missed instantaneous decapitation by one of the knives, added her own scream to the chorus of students' panicked yells when a gigantic black dog leapt onto her desk and began to chew on her Reeve keychain.
"AAAAH! OH GOD! HEEEEEELLLP MEEEE!" was the general theme of the class's reactions. Dana cowered under the desk, hyperventilating and swatting panickedly at her numbed shoulder, muttering frantic exclamations and prayers under her breath and staring wildly. The pallid hand had withdrawn into the shadows, but there was something else there . . . something tall and dark-
A frightened hush suddenly fell over the wailing students as two massive cloaked figures stepped out of the darkness. One, the slightly smaller of the two, was completely enveloped in shadows and moved like a silent nightmare; light seemed to bend away from him, touching only upon the gleaming assassin's knife in his gloved hand. The other was pale, pale as death, awful glowing red coals shining in place of human eyes, one hand hidden beneath his scarlet mantle while the other bent into a white claw. Dana stared, breathless, and knew that this creature was the one that had attacked her. But why? And what kind of hell had spawned a monster like that?
Then the two beings began to laugh quietly, and the class let out another collective shriek as recognition dawned. The Final Fantasy VI fans yelped at the sight of Shadow, and Cendrillo swatting frantically at Interceptor, who was now eyeing her like an extra-large Doggy Dinner; but that was nothing next to the wave of noise as fully two-thirds of the girls leapt to their feet and stampeded forward. "VINNIE!" Ji howled, but her single voice was lost in the roaring tide of pure lust swept towards the tall dark man with the golden claw.
As usual, the stampede lasted about two and a half seconds. Five feet from the teacher's desk, the frontrunners of the mob stopped abruptly as they slammed into a wall of invisible energy. Blue lightning leapt into existence, throwing them back rather unceremoniously, and near-fatally destroying several fangirls' egos. Dana had not joined the stampede, due to the fact that she was still stuck under her own desk, but she felt the effects anyway when VinnieLuvr landed on top of her with a heavy thunk.
"Excellent timing," Shadow deadpanned, examining the heaps of groaning fangirls with a professional eye. "A truly vicious counterattack, with no indication whatsoever given beforehand. A Turk tactic, Valentine?"
Vincent laughed again, a dry, quiet sound that somehow managed to convey more pure evil than any of Rufus' or Sephiroth's maniacal cackles. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Arrowny. Miss J suggested that I begin looking into . . . alternative . . . methods of defense. I followed up my Barrier spell with an interesting little artifact I found in the Diablo II universe."
Shadow's face could not be seen behind his ninja's mask, but his tone was the kind that facially-advantaged persons would be raising an eyebrow with. "Bolt Web, I'm guessing. Uncanonical weaponry in an OFU? I don't believe the Headmaster would agree with that."
"Rule number one: Turks are nothing if not multi-talented." Vincent said quietly. "And thanks to these- fans- old Turk skills are coming in handy. Attention, students! Return to your seats immediately. Miss Ji, I appreciate your attitude towards me, but if you say any more of that sentence you will force me to kill you. Kindly restrain yourself."
It took a few minutes, but all the students eventually clambered back into their seats, more or less conscious. Vincent conjured a small Fire spell and lit the brass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, dimly illuminating the teacher's desk and the blackboard.
"Thank you. Students, welcome to Dark and Gloomy 101. The objective of this class is to teach you how to write angst and drama with actual plot relevence, and also to pound through your exceptionally thick skulls that just because I am quiet, that does not mean that I am just waiting for some fabulous woman to come along and make me love again. Or man, for that matter. Captain Highwind informs me that there are several stories in which I am matched with . . . himself. At least, I believe that was the gist of his statement. Being asleep for thirty years, I am rather unacquainted with the Captain's modern euphemisms." Vincent's smooth voice had taken on a rather strained sound.
"So before we begin any lesson, let me remind you of this." The dark man placed his hands on the teacher's desk and leaned forward, fixing the class with a death glare that would have made Chaos proud. "I loved Lucrecia. For her sake, I spent three decades in a coffin, atoning for my sin of failure. Do you honestly believe- any of you- that I would simply forget her for some suddenly appearing fabulous woman? Well?" Dana, rubbing her aching head, had a sneaking suspicion that he was talking to her.
Vincent's teeth were now audibly grinding, though his voice never rose one bit. The golden claw was leaving visible scratch marks in the stone desk. "Four demons live in my body. Four voices in my head, tormenting me day and night. Nightmares. Inhumanity. All this, I endure for her memory. Am I likely to simply give up the love of my life and death in the cause of . . . 'the most beautiful woman ever made?'" The tone was heavy with sarcasm, and horns were beginning to sprout on his forehead. Shadow, sensing danger, placed a reassuring- and restraining- hand on his shoulder.
"Valentine, Lucrecia is alive here. You don't need to ventilate anybody . . . right now, anyway." The masked ninja's eyes dwelt on Lorelai, who meeped visibly and hastily hid the notebook she had been scribbling in. Vincent lead out a hiss, but relaxed slightly and let go of the desk.
"Of course. One must not let personal issues-" another blood-freezing glare "-distract oneself from the task at hand." He picked up a piece of chalk and began to rapidly write on the blackboard, leaving Shadow the lectern. The ninja stepped forward, assuming control of the class.
"Attention!" he snapped, deriving visible satisfaction from the way the class twitched. "Good. You seem to have some survival instincts, anyway. Under each bench are several copies of this course's textbook, 'Woe is Me: A Guide to Practical Angst' by Drizzt Do'Urden. Kindly turn to chapter 1: "Why Do We Wail?" and begin reading. We will discuss this section in ten minutes. Be prepared to think. Distract anybody in this class in any way, and I will feed your chitlins to Interceptor for lunch. Any questions?"
VinnieLuvr shot up her hand, but Dana remembered her experience in Gogo's class and hastily slapped the girl's hand down again. The other fan gave her a nasty look, and immediately set about repairing the red-and-black rhinestone designs on her nails. Dana, looking to the textbook, heaved a sigh of relief. Gogo had used Holy, but her money was on Shadow being rather less moral in his dealings with students.
[Why do we wail?] the chapter began. [Why? Because we are self-aware. With free will comes various aspects of life- decisions, beliefs, and desires; drama and depression are natural results of these characteristics.]
[It is the habit of every dramatic character, whether hero, villain, or minor comic relief, to have some buried trauma that forces them to indulge in that most universal of instincts: Angst. Professor Sid, a doctor from the Spirits Within continuum and the foremost authority on human and inhuman emotions, defines angst as "an acute but unspecific feeling of anxiety; usually reserved for philosophical anxiety about the world or about personal freedom." Of course, in practical application amongst the fanfiction community, it usually means simply gloom and depression.]
Dana found herself half-nodding. The way Vincent acted, he didn't seem very worried about the world or personal freedom (except maybe his freedom to smack down Hojo at regular intervals), but he was awfully depressed. Meeting the actual guy, somehow, had started her thinking about Rhiannon Starfire, her beautiful heroine who had rescued Vincent from his own demons. Vincent had used an awful lot of 'thees' and 'thous' in her story, and it seemed that the real Vincent didn't talk that way. The real one seemed more . . . testy, really. Not at all romantic.
[The characteristic of angst in any hero or villain is usually diagnosed by the fanfiction writer as self-dramatization, with all its attendant pitfalls: vulnerability, ridiculously anachronistic speech, long, florid speeches about the color of a woman's eyes, and metaphors that ought to be taken out and shot. It is an unfortunate truth that angsty characters are often made to swear by ancient Egyptian deities, for some odd reason. These characteristics, which are actually those of melodrama and not of angst, are nevertheless attributed to angsty characters. Melodrama in the guise of angst is easy to write, and has therefore taken over angst in no uncertain manner. If you ever read about someone who was sent home "before dawn dyed the Connecticut hills the color of fuschined water in some recollected apothecary," or some similarly labored phrase, then you have met melodrama. Stand at least ten paces and back and inform the authorities immediately.]
For the first time since Dana had entered the University, time flew. Almost before she realized it, Shadow called the class to order and asked for observations. Actually, demanded them would be more accurate.
"You." He pointed to Galadria Strife. "Discuss the chapter."
"Umm . . ."
"NOW."
"Uh- I-" Galadria was obviously thinking fast. "It was . . . about angst! It said that angst was . . . uh . . . really cool?"
The class reflexively ducked as Vincent calmly said "Ultima" over one shoulder. "And let that be a lesson to the rest of you-" he commented, forcing the rest of the class to tear their eyes away from the shellshocked charcoal lump that was currently muttering some very creative swearwords "-not to be writing fanfiction under your desk when either I or Mr. Arrowny have given an assignment. Miss Louisa, kindly take Miss Galadria to the Infirmary. Miss Ebersol, do you have anything to say about the chapter?"
"Actually, yeah," Dana murmured nervously. "The book said that- melodrama, right- was like a screwed-up version of angst. Overdone, and stuff. But can't melodrama also, y'know, help out the story a bit? If a guy's talking about how great a girl's eyes look, then he must like her, right?"
There was a tense silence. Several students craned their heads to look at Dana, who hunched her shoulders slightly, preparing for a painful reprimand. Several seconds passed, however, and when none appeared to be forthcoming, Dana cautiously raised her head.
Vincent and Shadow weren't glaring. They weren't brandishing sharp objects. They weren't preparing materia or magicite for a royal smiting. They were nodding. Thoughtfully nodding.
"Miss Ebersol has read the chapter, apparently," Shadow commented to Vincent. "A first in one of this class, I believe."
"So it would seem." Vincent's eyes focused on Dana, and the fanwriter flinched again, but there was no death glare this time. It seemed almost . . . approving? "Miss Ebersol, you are- to a certain extent- correct. Concentrating on certain features may serve as an indication for future romance. The common error, however, lies in florid over-description- in short, melodramatic musing." He picked up a candelabrum from the teacher's desk and brought it closer to the blackboard, illuminating what he had written there.
MELODRAMA- drama on an overstated and superficial model, the heading read. Below it, in the tall man's elegant script, ran a list of differences between Angsty behavior and Melodramatic behavior.
"Consider point number three- Physical Appearance. While a person may appear attractive- or even stunning- to someone else at first meeting, someone who meets someone else on a chance is not likely to spend all of their time rhapsodizing about this stranger's appearance. They are more likely to confront such issues as Who are you? How did you get here? And, if encountering an original female, Why are you wearing a chainmail bikini in the North Crater?" Vincent's monotone took on a momentary sarcastic tinge. "In reality, if attention to physical features were an indication of later romance, choose the things that people really would notice: the way a man might fidget with his hand upon his sword, a woman's covering her mouth with one hand when she smiles . . . these are the things that we notice about each other. Spending a great deal of time describing clothing in minute detail is not only unrealistic, it bores the reader to tears."
Dana frowned slightly. "But what if you're, uh . . . meeting more than one new character at once? Can't you describe their clothing to, well, tell them apart or something? At least until we learn their names?"
The clawed man jerked his head towards Shadow, who had been watching the exchange intently; at Vincent's gesture, the ninja stopped cleaning his nails with a pencil and fixed the class with a dark stare.
"Introducing . . . more than one original character? At once?" He repeated slowly. "Miss Ebersol, I have only one thing to say about that."
"Be careful?" Dana ventured.
"Don't." The word was punctuated with a wolflike snap of the jaws. "Introducing a new character by their clothing not only confuses your reader, but it also allows you to indulge your passion for over-elaborate costumes. If any of you little runts ever read OFUM, you'd know what Miss Cam says about this. 'Never spend more time describing a dress than the scenery.'"
"You know," Vincent interjected with a long-suffering sigh, "You really don't need us to be telling you this. In your world, good advice for writers has been in circulation for hundreds of years." He moved the candelabrum to another section of the board, where there were several phrases in quotation marks. "Look at this. Polish, repolish, every color lay/ sometimes add, but oftener take away.' Boileau, who knew what he was talking about. Would anyone care to tell me what he meant?"
A hand was tentatively raised in the back row of the class. "Miss Brat Worst?"
"I think it means . . . you have to . . . not write a whole bunch of stuff?"
"Close enough. What Boileau meant was that you must be careful not to write extraneous prose." There were numerous blank looks from the class, and for the first time in his life, Vincent found himself rolling his eyes. "Not to write a great deal of useless description. Every part of every sentence must somehow serve either characterization, plot, or mood. Obviously, it would be foolish to hope that every household would somehow produce another Jean Racine."
More blank looks.
"That's precisely what I mean," Vincent muttered to Shadow. "Look at them. I spent thirty years asleep in a basement, and I still manage to know more about their history and culture than they do. Morons."
"Valentine?"
"Yes?"
"Have you been working with Yuffie and Relm again?"
"Unfortunately, yes. The Headmaster insisted that I become more . . . outspoken . . . if I was going to help teach this class. Last week, I used 'stuff' as a verb, and Kisaragi nearly burst my eardrums with enthusiasm."
Shadow frowned. "Isn't that out of character for you?"
"Not at all. Turks may be as explicit as they like."
"So be it," the ninja conceded. "Then that means that I may revert to one of my former characters as well?"
Vincent smirked in a Renoish manner- another Turk skill, evidently. "Do as you please, Arrowny."
"All right." And with those two words, Shadow . . . changed. The near-toneless voice became edged and bitingly sarcastic, the poised stance slumped into the pose of a disaffected twenty-something with a lot of grievances against existence in general, and the grip on the knife tightened and shifted as Shadow became, for the moment, the feckless adventurer-thief Clyde Arrowny.
"Angst, right?" he growled, jerking his thumb at the blackboard. "Well, I've seen more'n my share of shit, and I've dealt with everything under the sun- angst included. And let me tell you something: doesn't matter how fabulous Mirabella Moonshine is, angst is something you just don't get over in one damn day.
"Hell, look at me! This is how I was in the old days- before my best friend got gutted like a fish, trying to rob that goddamn train. I was a thief, a bandit, and a royal asshole. Angst changes a man, you know- after the poor bastard died, and what with general depression and a fence who cheated me on the goods I did manage to get, I did everything except cut my hair and join a friggin' monastery. Started berating myself over the poor sap's death, vowed to distance myself from the world at large so that I wouldn't 'harm anybody with my presence', shit like that. Joined a super-secret ninja cult and stayed away from everybody 'cept Man's Best Friend. Angst does that to you.
"But what you idiots forget is that no matter how screwed-up a fellow is, he doesn't turn into some kind'a weeping lily and cry on the shoulder of the first broad who turns up. Chicks emote- actual men deal with it. Did Valentine cry when his girlfriend married a psycho scientist an' gave birth to a bastard who tried to destroy the world? Nah. The most you'll ever get outta this jerk is an occasional "I have sinned," plus a whole lotta " . . . ". In canon, natch- here, he's got Lucy back, and he's hanging around with Kisaragi, which means I can't vouch for his sanity any more. But the point is, he kept it together. No crying, no wailing, no extreme 'emotional vulnerability' or whatever. WE DON'T DO THAT. CAN YOU GET THAT THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULLS, YOU LITTLE JACKASSES?!"
Shadow paused for breath and glanced around the classroom. Many of the students were staring pop-eyed at him, mouthing wordlessly or modelling facial expressions in various degrees of shocked resent.
"That felt good." He said at last, releasing his tight grip on the hilt of his dagger. Once again, his voice was dull and blank, stance poised and careful. Vincent gave a wry smile.
"I hear that Miss J is offering a seminar for recalcitrant characters, Arrowny- 'Ranting to Win,' I believe. Perhaps you should consider participating. As for the rest of you-" Vincent considered the rather shellshocked students for a moment "-as I heard some good responses in class today, your homework will be light. Read the Chapter Review on page 16 and answer Discussion Questions one through fourteen. And if anybody responds 'because he needs the release of true love' to number six, I'd advise you to start stocking up on Maiden's Kisses. Fast. Dismissed!"
* * *
As the bell rang, Dana pushed her way through the crush of students towards the door. Despite the prospect of yet another homework assignment, she felt surprisingly cheerful; for the first time since coming to OFUFF, she had negotiated a class without either large amounts of severe pain, bizarre punishments, or trauma that would require more than six months of therapy to negate. The textbook was actually . . . interesting, and not larger than a standard unabridged encyclopedia either. Despite the purplish bruises she now sported from her abrupt collision with VinnieLuvr, she felt rather lighthearted. She had listened in class, asked a question, and not died. Perhaps paradise was yet attainable . . .
Not Sephiroth, though. He was a bit too sadistic to make an ideal boyfriend for her. And Vincent seemed pretty grouchy, despite being too gorgeous for words. Maybe Setzer would be more agreeable?
Heart buoyed by renewed hopes of eternal love and kinky sex, Dana hurried to her dorm with the armload of textbooks. Because of the cleaning-up after the rebellion, there were only two classes that day, and she had a crapload of backed-up homework to do. Besides Vincent's and Gogo's essays, Rydia had assigned a massive report for Basic Magic Logistics on the third day of ClicheCamp, and as Dana had been unconscious for most of the time that she'd been given to complete it, that was given first priority. Checking her badly scribbled and doodle-encrusted notes, Dana also found that she owed Ultima Weapon a diagram of the effects of time compression, and Sabin's Martial Arts for the Complete Idiot class was requiring her to keep a journal of all the motions and techniques described.
Dana's spirits dropped again as she stared at the mound of textbooks and notebooks on her desk, mentally resigning herself to missing lunch and dinner for the next few days if she wanted any hope of passing any classes. Muttering various unprintable epithets, she dropped into her chair and grabbed for the Basic Magic Logistics textbook, flipping to the latest section ('Prettiness Does Not Equal Power') and began to read.
Time passed . . .
* * *
Even Maggie, the eternally hyper Wakka luster, had fallen asleep by the time Dana was finished. She'd managed to half-ass her way through all but one of the assignments- Gogo's essay, which wasn't due for two days yet. Looking at the massive wads of smearily printed stenotype paper that now littered the room, Dana found herself thinking. Gogo- wasn't there something else-
Shit! Detention! The thought hit her like a runaway freight train. The Mimic's teaching assistants were supposed to come and get her . . . so why hadn't they?
Grinning sleepily, Dana tumbled into bed still dressed. Gogo'd said that the TAs would come on their own time. Well, she'd been in her room for most of the day, and they hadn't come- they'd forgotten! Off the hook, yes! she cheered silently, letting her eyes close of their own accord. Soon, Dana Ebersol drifted off to sleep, secure in the belief that even scary paisley-garbed Mimics could make a mistake.
But the best surprises are the best concealed . . .