[Guilty Gear] Covalent Bonds, Part II
Title: Covalent Bonds, or The Absolutely Necessary GG College AU Fic with a Bad Title
Fandom: Guilty Gear
Part: 2 of ?
Pairing: mild Sol-Ky distillate, smells distinctly of black tea and brimstone (handle with care, extremely flammable)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: college-AU, humor/parody/crack
Notes: This was born from the idea that Sol would make the best, worst, scariest college professor who ever lived. And possibly that avatar that has Sol in a labcoat and fuzzy slippers. XD Of course, where he goes, Ky can't be far. In other words, my pitch to do something with the ill-reputed high school/college AU genre.
Summary: Sol is your not-so everyday mad science professor, and he hates the universe. That is, until he meets-- Well, no. He's still going to hate the universe. He will, however, be forced into grudging coexistence with it.
Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI
Covalent Bonds
or The Absolutely Necessary GG College AU Fic with a Bad Title
Part II
When William Shakespeare sat down in front of his stack of parchment, dipped the quill, paused to adjust his ruff and inform his wife about the extremely distracting fashions of the day, and then penned the immortal line, "Hell is empty and all the devils are here," Sol was pretty sure that he'd been talking about the inside of a college classroom.
A college classroom filled with the napalm-thickness of fruity Jennifer Lopez scents mingling with "it's totally not CFC, honest" male deodorants, the noise of two dozen simultaneous and equally inane cell phone conversations (not always conducted by separate people), approximately twenty-five guys and fifteen girls who thought wearing their pants around their knees or T-shirts emblazoned with "Pop My Cherry" made them appear more adult, and the overall atmosphere of long-suffering disdain distilled from the minds of over five dozen students who were hoping to just get this over with and be allowed to return to whatever faculty they'd been so cruelly thrust from in order to fulfill the general requirements of their curriculum.
In this, they vaguely had something in common with him, Sol thought, a grimace of disgust momentarily threatening to replace the death glare that had effectively sent staff members lunging for cover behind dustbins for the past few weeks. He had derived a small measure of satisfaction from this, as well as the promise of unspeakable pain radiating from every tendon in I-no's face as she had to resort to lugging a CO2 extinguisher around at all times to be able to curb the spontaneous and very specifically concentrated outbreaks of fire in and around her office, and on the faux leopard covers of her car seats.
He was still in the process of devising some manner of creative protestation against the people whose signatures had come attached to the missive - fresh and green, all of them, and completely unaware of the lengths he could go to in order to avoid things he considered a complete waste of time.
There was a reason nobody in the entire university had been foolish enough to make him teach classes. It was the same reason nobody had been foolish enough to try and make him do anything he didn't want to do in a long time.
The disastrous results of such early undertakings had been added to the ever-growing corpus of urban legends surrounding the campus, such as the last time someone had tried to turn him into the scientific poster child for a consortium of potential investors. They had received a demonstration on the marvels of the find-and-replace feature before a running camera ("The Wang Particle Wang under Conditions of Wangity Wang Wang" by Sol Wang, Professor of Wang). He'd also long since become exempt from all the faculty meetings with mandatory attendance, as the last attempt to do otherwise had the firefighters of the entire district trying to stop an army of jetpack-powered metal pterodactyls gliding menacingly around the university grounds.
Sol had decided, sometime between exploring the rim of his crib and gradeschool, that he would subscribe to the Einsteinian theory about the universe and human stupidity. The world was a place populated by an astounding amount of stupid people, and all the useless inventions with which they managed to turn life into a huge, tangled, annoying mess, such as biker shorts, senators, ringtones, slim fast candy, clerk desks with "gone to lunch" signs at ten o'clock, pop music, and FOX news. (He had not yet discovered the brain-melting qualities of reality TV).
It followed, then, that he would go out of his way to spend as little time as possible in the company of people with an annoyance factor greater than zero. This included ninety-nine percent of college students, whose conglomerations he'd been trying to avoid even when he himself had still been a college student, if only in name. And now, he was going to make damn sure that he would never be forced to interact with same-said conglomerations ever again.
Sol looked around, taking in the rows filled with animatedly chattering students who had as of yet no concept of the horrors they would be facing before the course was over, and were not the slightest bit inclined to acknowledge his presence at the front of the lecture room. He glanced at his watch (synchronizable with atomic clocks in Japan, Europe, and North America), and decided that his charitable ten seconds were over.
He reached into the pocket of his lab coat, extricated a pair of headphones, and pulled out a small rectangular switch box.
The WMD Geiger Counter was not an actual Geiger counter. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a reject from a 1960s Star Trek film set, with its bright yellow color, clunky red digits and gauges, and over-sized dial knobs. However, beyond its hopelessly old-fashioned shell, it possessed a high gain modern preamp driving an 8-bit computer, and thus was determined to live up to all the terror and volume of its brethren without the necessary presence of life-threatening substances.
As soon as the right switch was flipped, it gave its best rendition of the eardrum-shattering screech of a tortured electric guitar coupled with the burst of noise one could reasonably expect from a dying Dolby Surround at full volume. This effect, of course, was amplified by the groans and wails of approximately sixty students, who had dropped both phones and conversations, and were seeking to stuff their fingers into their ears as far as possible.
Satisfied, Sol turned off the device, slipped it back into his coat pocket, and let the headphones settle loosely around his neck.
The students were rising slowly from their slumped position, gingerly testing the integrity of their skull, accompanied by a few scattered complaints among the dazed majority.
"Ow. Fuck. Is he nuts?!"
"Seriously, what gives?"
"What just happened?"
"Who's that guy?"
"I think that's the teacher."
"What?!"
"No way!"
Sol smirked darkly. "Now that I have your undivided attention... I'd welcome you to class, but that would imply that any of you came here voluntarily and that I feel even the slightest bit accommodating. Which I don't."
Silence.
"I know you're here because you think this is a minimum effort course. I know some of you - like you there, in the back row. Yeah, you."
In the uppermost corner, a hulking guy who looked like something sprug from a 90s movie, complete with a crew cut and letterman jacket, stared blankly.
"-are going to be very concerned with their grade average. But this is a science class, and this year you'll have to do something else than boil an egg for ten hours and write about the results. Actually... no, you don't have to. You can fail, for all I care. Makes my life easier."
More silence. In the front row, a student timidly raised her hand. "Um. Um. What do we do if we don't want to fail?"
"Use your brain," Sol scoffed. He turned to the blackboard and started scrawling, his teeth already close to grinding at the thought that he'd have to be wasting his time drawing silly pictures and explaining the periodic table for the next couple of months. If cougar queen and her buddies in the administration thought he wasn't going to raise hell, though, they were in for a bit of a surprise.
The background was filled with rustling as the students scrambled to extricate their notepads, blending into the obedient scratching of pens. There was a pause when they realized that the blackboard was indeed spelling out "The Fucking Atomic Model", which was followed by rapid strikethroughs. Sol continued scrawling.
"Um. Um." The same student, urgently waving her hand like a kid waiting to be excused. "Um. Could you, like... use all caps or something? Please? It's just... um. Your handwriting is.... um..." - a pause as she searched for the polite expression for 'godawful' - "Um, a tad hard to read, and, um."
This time, Sol did gnash his teeth. "This-"
The door to the lecture hall squeaked open a crack.
"I apologize for being late," said the tiny blond thing in the preppy suit that had whizzed through the gap. "I couldn't find the right room."
Sol stared, as did the rest of the class, because the thing wasn't just tiny, it also barely looked a day into high school. The thing, meanwhile, seemed uncomfortable with all the attention being paid to its person, because it coughed, discreetly seeking to inch towards a free seat.
"I'm sorry for disrupting the class..." A blink, an aborted stare that undoubtedly registered Sol's untucked shirt and fuzzy bunny slippers, before it ventured hesitantly, "...sir?"
"Is this a practical joke?" Sol asked, having calculated the thing's age and figuring he could pin this on someone's poor sense of humor.
The thing blinked, giving him the kind of wide-eyed rabbit stare that couldn't possibly be real. "Pardon, sir?"
"Is this a joke," Sol reiterated. "Did you get lost on the way to preschool, kid, or is this some kind of prank so you can ask me about a packet of crayons?"
The tiny thing straightened abruptly, its bewildered gaze morphing into the kind of tesla-powered glare that made Sol want to check for singed eyebrows. "The name is Ky Kiske, sir. And I'm here for the basic science course."
-TBC-
----
A/N: To be honest, I didn't expect to update this quickly, but stress demanded a relief. XD More to follow whenever the schedule allows now. As always, thoughts are much appreciated.
Notes for the Bored:
- "Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the the universe." ~ Albert Einstein
- The WMD Geiger Counter (turn down the volume if you like your ears) is a type of instrument effects pedal that would technically need to be plugged into something, but Sol's awesome enough to have modded his into a single-unit eardrum destruction machine. XD
- Yup, tiny preppy genius Ky, a tender fourteen, tossed to the wolves. *giggles* Explanations to follow.
- I'll also, at this point, have to mention my high school science teacher, who was the most merciless tormenter of slackers, and yet the most wonderfully rewarding teacher for those willing to work hard. I imagine Sol would also be that kind of person.
<< Return to Part I? | Continue to Part III >>
<< Return to Guilty Gear Index | Return to Fanfiction Index >>
Fandom: Guilty Gear
Part: 2 of ?
Pairing: mild Sol-Ky distillate, smells distinctly of black tea and brimstone (handle with care, extremely flammable)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: college-AU, humor/parody/crack
Notes: This was born from the idea that Sol would make the best, worst, scariest college professor who ever lived. And possibly that avatar that has Sol in a labcoat and fuzzy slippers. XD Of course, where he goes, Ky can't be far. In other words, my pitch to do something with the ill-reputed high school/college AU genre.
Summary: Sol is your not-so everyday mad science professor, and he hates the universe. That is, until he meets-- Well, no. He's still going to hate the universe. He will, however, be forced into grudging coexistence with it.
Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI
Covalent Bonds
or The Absolutely Necessary GG College AU Fic with a Bad Title
Part II
When William Shakespeare sat down in front of his stack of parchment, dipped the quill, paused to adjust his ruff and inform his wife about the extremely distracting fashions of the day, and then penned the immortal line, "Hell is empty and all the devils are here," Sol was pretty sure that he'd been talking about the inside of a college classroom.
A college classroom filled with the napalm-thickness of fruity Jennifer Lopez scents mingling with "it's totally not CFC, honest" male deodorants, the noise of two dozen simultaneous and equally inane cell phone conversations (not always conducted by separate people), approximately twenty-five guys and fifteen girls who thought wearing their pants around their knees or T-shirts emblazoned with "Pop My Cherry" made them appear more adult, and the overall atmosphere of long-suffering disdain distilled from the minds of over five dozen students who were hoping to just get this over with and be allowed to return to whatever faculty they'd been so cruelly thrust from in order to fulfill the general requirements of their curriculum.
In this, they vaguely had something in common with him, Sol thought, a grimace of disgust momentarily threatening to replace the death glare that had effectively sent staff members lunging for cover behind dustbins for the past few weeks. He had derived a small measure of satisfaction from this, as well as the promise of unspeakable pain radiating from every tendon in I-no's face as she had to resort to lugging a CO2 extinguisher around at all times to be able to curb the spontaneous and very specifically concentrated outbreaks of fire in and around her office, and on the faux leopard covers of her car seats.
He was still in the process of devising some manner of creative protestation against the people whose signatures had come attached to the missive - fresh and green, all of them, and completely unaware of the lengths he could go to in order to avoid things he considered a complete waste of time.
There was a reason nobody in the entire university had been foolish enough to make him teach classes. It was the same reason nobody had been foolish enough to try and make him do anything he didn't want to do in a long time.
The disastrous results of such early undertakings had been added to the ever-growing corpus of urban legends surrounding the campus, such as the last time someone had tried to turn him into the scientific poster child for a consortium of potential investors. They had received a demonstration on the marvels of the find-and-replace feature before a running camera ("The Wang Particle Wang under Conditions of Wangity Wang Wang" by Sol Wang, Professor of Wang). He'd also long since become exempt from all the faculty meetings with mandatory attendance, as the last attempt to do otherwise had the firefighters of the entire district trying to stop an army of jetpack-powered metal pterodactyls gliding menacingly around the university grounds.
Sol had decided, sometime between exploring the rim of his crib and gradeschool, that he would subscribe to the Einsteinian theory about the universe and human stupidity. The world was a place populated by an astounding amount of stupid people, and all the useless inventions with which they managed to turn life into a huge, tangled, annoying mess, such as biker shorts, senators, ringtones, slim fast candy, clerk desks with "gone to lunch" signs at ten o'clock, pop music, and FOX news. (He had not yet discovered the brain-melting qualities of reality TV).
It followed, then, that he would go out of his way to spend as little time as possible in the company of people with an annoyance factor greater than zero. This included ninety-nine percent of college students, whose conglomerations he'd been trying to avoid even when he himself had still been a college student, if only in name. And now, he was going to make damn sure that he would never be forced to interact with same-said conglomerations ever again.
Sol looked around, taking in the rows filled with animatedly chattering students who had as of yet no concept of the horrors they would be facing before the course was over, and were not the slightest bit inclined to acknowledge his presence at the front of the lecture room. He glanced at his watch (synchronizable with atomic clocks in Japan, Europe, and North America), and decided that his charitable ten seconds were over.
He reached into the pocket of his lab coat, extricated a pair of headphones, and pulled out a small rectangular switch box.
The WMD Geiger Counter was not an actual Geiger counter. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a reject from a 1960s Star Trek film set, with its bright yellow color, clunky red digits and gauges, and over-sized dial knobs. However, beyond its hopelessly old-fashioned shell, it possessed a high gain modern preamp driving an 8-bit computer, and thus was determined to live up to all the terror and volume of its brethren without the necessary presence of life-threatening substances.
As soon as the right switch was flipped, it gave its best rendition of the eardrum-shattering screech of a tortured electric guitar coupled with the burst of noise one could reasonably expect from a dying Dolby Surround at full volume. This effect, of course, was amplified by the groans and wails of approximately sixty students, who had dropped both phones and conversations, and were seeking to stuff their fingers into their ears as far as possible.
Satisfied, Sol turned off the device, slipped it back into his coat pocket, and let the headphones settle loosely around his neck.
The students were rising slowly from their slumped position, gingerly testing the integrity of their skull, accompanied by a few scattered complaints among the dazed majority.
"Ow. Fuck. Is he nuts?!"
"Seriously, what gives?"
"What just happened?"
"Who's that guy?"
"I think that's the teacher."
"What?!"
"No way!"
Sol smirked darkly. "Now that I have your undivided attention... I'd welcome you to class, but that would imply that any of you came here voluntarily and that I feel even the slightest bit accommodating. Which I don't."
Silence.
"I know you're here because you think this is a minimum effort course. I know some of you - like you there, in the back row. Yeah, you."
In the uppermost corner, a hulking guy who looked like something sprug from a 90s movie, complete with a crew cut and letterman jacket, stared blankly.
"-are going to be very concerned with their grade average. But this is a science class, and this year you'll have to do something else than boil an egg for ten hours and write about the results. Actually... no, you don't have to. You can fail, for all I care. Makes my life easier."
More silence. In the front row, a student timidly raised her hand. "Um. Um. What do we do if we don't want to fail?"
"Use your brain," Sol scoffed. He turned to the blackboard and started scrawling, his teeth already close to grinding at the thought that he'd have to be wasting his time drawing silly pictures and explaining the periodic table for the next couple of months. If cougar queen and her buddies in the administration thought he wasn't going to raise hell, though, they were in for a bit of a surprise.
The background was filled with rustling as the students scrambled to extricate their notepads, blending into the obedient scratching of pens. There was a pause when they realized that the blackboard was indeed spelling out "The Fucking Atomic Model", which was followed by rapid strikethroughs. Sol continued scrawling.
"Um. Um." The same student, urgently waving her hand like a kid waiting to be excused. "Um. Could you, like... use all caps or something? Please? It's just... um. Your handwriting is.... um..." - a pause as she searched for the polite expression for 'godawful' - "Um, a tad hard to read, and, um."
This time, Sol did gnash his teeth. "This-"
The door to the lecture hall squeaked open a crack.
"I apologize for being late," said the tiny blond thing in the preppy suit that had whizzed through the gap. "I couldn't find the right room."
Sol stared, as did the rest of the class, because the thing wasn't just tiny, it also barely looked a day into high school. The thing, meanwhile, seemed uncomfortable with all the attention being paid to its person, because it coughed, discreetly seeking to inch towards a free seat.
"I'm sorry for disrupting the class..." A blink, an aborted stare that undoubtedly registered Sol's untucked shirt and fuzzy bunny slippers, before it ventured hesitantly, "...sir?"
"Is this a practical joke?" Sol asked, having calculated the thing's age and figuring he could pin this on someone's poor sense of humor.
The thing blinked, giving him the kind of wide-eyed rabbit stare that couldn't possibly be real. "Pardon, sir?"
"Is this a joke," Sol reiterated. "Did you get lost on the way to preschool, kid, or is this some kind of prank so you can ask me about a packet of crayons?"
The tiny thing straightened abruptly, its bewildered gaze morphing into the kind of tesla-powered glare that made Sol want to check for singed eyebrows. "The name is Ky Kiske, sir. And I'm here for the basic science course."
-TBC-
----
A/N: To be honest, I didn't expect to update this quickly, but stress demanded a relief. XD More to follow whenever the schedule allows now. As always, thoughts are much appreciated.
Notes for the Bored:
- "Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the the universe." ~ Albert Einstein
- The WMD Geiger Counter (turn down the volume if you like your ears) is a type of instrument effects pedal that would technically need to be plugged into something, but Sol's awesome enough to have modded his into a single-unit eardrum destruction machine. XD
- Yup, tiny preppy genius Ky, a tender fourteen, tossed to the wolves. *giggles* Explanations to follow.
- I'll also, at this point, have to mention my high school science teacher, who was the most merciless tormenter of slackers, and yet the most wonderfully rewarding teacher for those willing to work hard. I imagine Sol would also be that kind of person.
<< Return to Part I? | Continue to Part III >>
<< Return to Guilty Gear Index | Return to Fanfiction Index >>