The Literary Society vs. Twilight, Part 3/4
Title: The Literary Society vs. Twilight
Author: stormswift
Fandom(s): Twilight
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1000
Inspiration: My enabling friends and the many shortcomings regarding purple prose, shoddy world-building, and horrible characters
Warnings: Disney-level violence, destruction of public property, mild languageSummary: The story fights back, and another wrench is thrown in the works that none of them were expecting.
Part One // Part Two
The Literary Society vs. Twilight (Part 3)
The semi-transparent government teacher looked bemusedly at the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed new arrivals to his class.
“I’m sorry...are you new?”
“Pop your breaks, Professor Binns, we’ve been here the whole year,” said Distant Past. “We were just in the back row, that’s all.” The teacher--neither hero could dredge up a name for him--wrinkled his brow in confusion.
“Really?”
“Oh, sure,” said the Horticulturist, resting his feet on his desk. “Remember? I’m Simon and she’s Garfunkel.” The teacher’s eyes became unfocused for a moment as their aliases blended with canon. Then he snapped back to attention.
“Simon and Garfunkel. I hope these new seats indicate a desire to learn, not to goof off.”
“Perish the thought.”
“Furthest thing from our minds.” The stared back with wide, innocent eyes, until the teacher turned back to the board. Distant Past glared at the Horticulturist and promptly punched him in the shoulder. He stifled a yelp, rubbing his arm ruefully.
“You should be used to it by now,” he muttered.
“And you should be used to random acts of violence, yes?”
“Touche.”
“No talking, please. You are distracting your classmates.” They gaped at the teacher-Mr. Willingham-in astonishment. He’d solidified in record time.
“Oh-right,” stammered Distant Past. “Sorry. Old habits die hard, you know?” A quick survey of the room revealed defined characters popping up at a surprising rate. She exchanged a look with the Horticulturist, a look that clearly said “We might be in trouble.”
The English teacher had no problem with Artist and Verse, placidly passing her misty eyes over them with a small flicker of recognition. The other students, however, finally recognized them as strangers.
“Who are you?” asked the girl closest to Artist. Artist quickly gauged the girl’s level of reality.
“Hm? Oh...hi, I’m Bonnie and she’s Clyde. We just moved here from...Guam.”
“Guam?”
“Did you say your name is Clyde?” interjected the boy behind them.
“It’s short for Clydetta,” Artist explained. “So, what’re your thoughts on Gatsby? Personally, it feels like I’ve heard this story from Fitzgerald before, you know?”
“What, like you knew him personally?” scoffed the boy.
“Not exactly, what’s-your-name-”
“-Jim-”
“-not exactly, Jim, but I know his writing very well. It’s almost the same thing.”
“Oh! Sorry, right, hi, I’m Angela,” said the girl on the other side of Artist.
“You’re a real character!” Artist exclaimed in surprise. The other two didn’t know quite what to make of that, so she back-pedaled. “Er, I mean...you’re nice. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“So-er-Clyde,” said Jim, quailing a bit at Verse’s fierce expression by soldiering on bravely, “how do you like Forks so far?”
“They say it’s rainy all the year,
but today, it seems quite clear,” she said.
“Hey, that rhymed!” he crowed. Verse rolled her eyes.
“Ooo, the weather is nice today,” sighed Angela. “It’ll be nice to walk around without getting drenched. Does it rain much in Guam?”
“No, no, usually not.
The days are dry, and fairly hot,” Verse answered.
“Dude, you are on a roll,” said Jim. Verse pressed her lips firmly together and refused to look at him. Angela scooted her desk a little closer.
"Are you really from Guam? That's so cool! What was it like where you grew up?" Artist and Verse exchanged glances, sly smiles on their faces. Everyone here completely accepted them hook, line, and sinker. Now it was time to have some fun.
Sci-Fi Boy and Fantasy Man stared eagerly at the Bunsen burner on the lab table between them, completely ignoring any and all instructions given by the teacher. Sci-Fi Boy tried to make sense of it, he really did; sense was his job. But from what he could tell, this teacher had the same grasp of chemistry that the average eight-year-old did. It wasn't worth the headache.
“Do you remember how to start these things?” asked Fantasy Man, toying with a box of matches.
“Sure. Gas, burner, then match. I wonder what all these mystery chemicals are!”
“Drink them and find out,” Fantasy Man suggested.
“Come on, there's only so much to go around. I don’t want to be selfish, after all.”
“Good thought. You’re a very selfless person and I admire that.”
“Why, thank you. That means a lot, coming from you. Shall we begin?”
“We shall.”
The Horticulturist and Distant Past were in trouble. Severely underestimating Mr. Willingham’s short temper, they found themselves on the receiving end of a blistering lecture on the value of an education and personal responsibility. He pontificated impressively on the dire consequences that awaited them should they continue to shirk their studies and waxed poetic about the bleak futures of high school drop-outs. There was just no way to shut him up and things didn’t look good. Distant Past sunk down in her chair, feeling fifteen years old again. Next to her, the Horticulturist gripped his desk with white knuckles, his eyes wide. It felt like the air was compressing around them. What was her name? Something...something that started with a G...she ought to know this...
“Time.” She looked strangely at the boy next to her. Simon, she thought. But what was he talking about? Time for what? His eyes widened in urgency as he forced the words quietly through gritted teeth. “Stop. Time. Now!”
“You will pay attention when I’m-” Distant Past got the gist just in time, wiggling her nose. Mr. Willingham-and the rest of the room-froze, his mouth in mid-yell, his vein in mid-throb.
“Took you long enough! Let’s get out of here!”
“I’ll defend myself later,” she agreed. “After you!” Once the classroom door shut behind them, Distant Past set time flowing again, and Mr. Willingham abruptly found himself yelling at two empty desks. Distant Past shuddered, rubbing her arms vigorously as though trying to through off a chill. What might have happened if she hadn't kept her head didn't bear contemplating.
“I’d feel bad for him,” she said, “if hadn’t just chewed me up one side and down the other.”
“Really? Because I wouldn’t feel bad if he made me dinner and massaged my feet. This way,” he directed, pointing down a hallway she’d completely bypassed.
“What’s this way?”
“The teacher’s lounge.”
“Why on earth do you want to go there?”
“Because Anita Blake and Khorii are there, that’s why!” As if it were the only natural conclusion to draw. She rolled her eyes, but trotted on behind him.
The wolf and unicorn-shaped Chia pets sat innocuously on a windowsill, clearly enjoying their brief laze in the bright sunlight.
“Excuse me young man, young lady, students are not allowed in here!” a scandalized teacher informed them. Distant Past couldn't even determined hir gender.
“Boy, we make friends wherever we go,” she observed.
“Sorry.” For once, the Horticulturist looked the very picture of sincere penitence. “We’re getting something for Mr. Willingham, that’s all.” The teacher looked grumpy and suspicious, but didn’t make any further attempt to stop them. The Horticulturist strolled up to the windowsill and ruffled Anita Blake’s luxurious foliage. He'd spent years cultivating her and she was definitely his pride and joy. “Show time, Anita. Let’s go. Garfunkel, could you do me a favour and carry Khorii? She’s still kinda slow, and time’s of the essence. Come on, girl!” He turned and the lone teacher watched in astonishment as Anita stretched languidly, shook herself awake, then leapt lightly from her perch to trot at the Horticulturist’s heels.
“But-that’s-what?” The two heroes ignored him completely, Distant Past following close behind pet and master with the unicorn under her arm. Occasionally, she plucked out one of the scattered pink sprouts along the body, to the pet’s evident discomfort.
“Be careful!” the Horticulturist scolded. “I don’t like them, either, but we’ll need her in top condition and not mad at me.”
“Y’mean the Space-Age Pollyanna can actually get mad at people?” The Horticulturist considered that for a moment.
“All right, good point,” he said. “But I still need her and her shrubbery, so knock it off!”
“Jeez, fine, I get it,” she muttered, shifting her grip so the foliage wasn’t crushed.
“Much better.”
“Bite me.”
Romance Girl burst into Artist and Verse’s classroom, out of breath and slightly dishevelled. Inside, the two held an impromptu question and answer session about their native Guam, making up flagrant untruths which their audience swallowed with nary a pause for the validity of such claims as “I’m a third-generation penguin breeder” and “I ride a llama to school.” The teacher kept scratching indefinable symbols on the chalkboard, completely unaware that she no longer had half the class's attention. Romance Girl had to get right in her face before she turned around.
“Uh...hi. I’ve got passes for...” she glanced down at the piece of paper in her hand, then rolled her eyes so hard she was liable to strain something, “...Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Well, peace out!” said Artist, cheerfully grabbing her book bag without waiting for further permission. “The principal probably got some smoke signals from Mom and Dad.” Once outside, Romance Girl crumpled the fake pass in her hand.
“Bonnie and Clyde?” she wanted to know.
“It’s short for Clydetta,” Artist said.
“Oh, well then. Come on, we’ve got a problem. Several problems.”
“Such as?” They set off down the hall.
“One: you’ve gone and named her Clyde.”
“How do you know she didn’t name herself?” Romance Girl didn’t even bother answering and continued right on.
“Two: I don’t know where...” she sighed. “Simon and Garfunkel have gone. They aren’t in their room and the teacher threw something at me when I asked after them. Three, it’s sunny out, so the Cullens are nowhere to be seen, which means this has been a complete waste of time. Four-” In another part of the building, a small explosion caused the floor to shudder beneath their feet. An instant later, a jarringly loud fire alarm began to blare furiously above their heads. “And four,” she continued, raising her voice so she could be heard over the alarm and hoards of students spilling out of their rooms, “I left Sci-Fi Boy and Fantasy Man unsupervised for longer than two minutes!” She set off sprinting down the hallway. Artist and Verse struggled to keep up.
“Whoa, whoa, what’s the rush?” panted Artist.
“I don’t know about you two,
but I am no athlete.
Please ease up a tiny bit;
take pity on my feet,” Verse pleaded.
“Can’t,” Romance Girl answered through gritted teeth. She surreptitiously stunned students in her way, disorienting them enough that they automatically stepped out of her way, smelling inexplicably like roses as she passed. “We have to find Sci-Fi Boy! If anything has happened to those two...”
“Why?”
“Because he’s-! Oh, sweet summer child.” Outside, they saw two commotions draw crowds of students. Distant Past and the Horticulturist caused the smaller one or, more specifically, Khorii did. Panicked by the prospect of a fire, the little pet nearly strangled Distant Past with her vines while the Horticulturist did his best to disentangle her.
“I said I was sorry!”
“You just couldn’t get pets that-y’know-pee when they’re afraid-”
“She’s made of plants! Flames scare her!”
“I’m gonna scare her worse in a second-”
“Hey! You two!” yelled Romance Girl, sprinting up to them, “have you seen Sci-Fi Boy? Or Fantasy Man? Or both?” Distant Past tried to point, but her arms were still pinned close to her sides. She settled for jerking her head irritably to the side.
“Who hasn’t seen them?”
Five minutes earlier...
“All right,” said Sci-Fi Boy, comparing notes with a slightly deafened Fantasy Man in the close press of panicking students and teachers, “we were doing okay until the blue stuff.” Both of them were streaked with improbable amounts of soot, and it was only sheer happenstance that the shrapnel from an exploding beaker missed them. Sci-Fi Boy's corona of hair stood up at all ends, making him look even more like a mad scientist than usual.
“Yeah. That blue stuff and the open flame didn’t work too well.”
“Made a neat explosion, though.”
“Nice colours,” agreed Fantasy Man.
“I think it took out the ceiling tiles.”
“At least.”
“Do you suppose there’s asbestos up there?”
“Probably.”
“Whoa.” They shuffled along, oblivious to the alarm around them and the ominously smoking door of the chem lab they left behind. The mass exodus of students was easy enough to follow--Sci-Fi Boy caught sight of Steve and waved amiably at him. Steve waved back, then looked confused.
“I wish we’d had time to try the clear stuff.”
“What d'you reckon it was?”
“Hydrochloric acid, maybe.”
“That would have been so cool! Damn. Well, there’s always next time, ri-?” They walked through the double doors and stepped outside into the full, brilliant sunlight.