Notes: Merf, sorry for being short and choppy and full of derp. Maybe once I get my thoughts squared away again I can write a more coherent chapter.
Anyways, apparently rumour has it that someone's writing another school for educating Hetaliatards. I've already concritted their story, and really I'm a bit torn on the whole issue. The writing sucks, yes, but there is room for improvement and I'm not about to flip and say OMG IT'S MY IDEA NO STEALING because I stole the OFU idea from misscam in the first place. Let's just see how the other turns out.
Without further ado, here's the long-anticipated chapter.
Part X
Once the initial paranoia wore off, the students and staff stuck in Venice started fully appreciating the timeless city.
Yes, indeed Venice was timeless. The only clock that kept accurate time was the one embedded into the Chronotransporter, and even that clock got a bit confused once in a while. Time travel into a city notorious for horrible timekeeping meant double the bewilderment.
The second most accurate clock would probably be the clock tower in the Piazza San Marco, and that one didn't even have a minute hand. All the students knew was that they arrived when a bell rang from St. Mark's Campanile – it was the Nona, which sounded around noontime. From there they were on their own to determine what four o'clock looked like in 1600s Venice.
Winter had to be taken into account. The days were short – they were getting longer, but they were still short – so a typical workday would probably end whenever darkness fell, regardless of time. Most students thought that sunset would be a good indication to head back to the Piazza San Marco, even if sunset usually didn't occur at four o'clock PM.
But in the meantime, the students and Staff took the opportunity to explore. Venice was a loud and boisterous city, full of sights, sounds, and even smells. At this time, Venice (and all the other great cities of Europe) could be compared to a contemporary desert city, full of open-air bazaars and merchants bringing in goods from all over the world. Even on Christmas day, the city was alive with merchants peddling their wares, carollers singing songs, and craftspeople working in the smithy or at the loom.
Peter Hawthorne, now dressed appropriately in period attire, followed his group as they scrambled down to the quay to claim some gondolas. Mary had mysteriously managed to procure some money (even 17th century Venice had its plotholes) and paid the nearby gondoliers to take them on a trip up the Grand Canal.
At the same time, Andy Kirk and Sara Parker had stopped to listen to an orphan child choir a couple blocks away from the Rialto. Seborga, their guide to the city, translated some lyrics for them and the rest of the group.
"It's a Christmas song, of course. Singing's an important part of the Venetian church liturgy," the Italian micronation pointed out. "Venice is famous for its orphan choirs."
As beautiful as the voices were, they clashed with the noise of the rest of the city. Everywhere else the discordant voices of merchants, gossipers, and workers resounded. Music and noise mixed so much in Venice that the lines between them slipped and blurred.
Not too far away from the choir, Violet Rein and Elise Rayn had been nearly accosted by a woman selling jugs; Violet had taken pity on her and bought a little one for four soldi. Elise had to show her the difference between a ducat and a soldi – one ducat was worth 124 soldi, so had Violet given the woman four ducats for a little jug, she probably would have felt very cheated afterwards. Especially since one soldo could buy someone an oyster, and a little over one soldo bought an egg.
Venetians could catch oysters. They couldn't catch chickens. Although, in the case of Sparkles McDesu, yes they could.
Speaking of Sparkles McDesu, her quarry had managed to take shelter in the waters of the Grand Canal. Gilbert Beilschmidt was now swimming up to the Rialto Bridge, leaving an indignant giant rooster spluttering far behind him. Checking to make sure that the coast was clear, the Prussian slipped out of the water and into an alley between two buildings at one end of the bridge. He was so preoccupied with making sure that Sparkles wasn't following him that he didn't notice Ludwig standing at the end of the alley until he bumped into him.
"Gilbert! What the –" Ludwig stared at him incredulously. Next to the German, Feliciano was trying to buy some pasta. The Rialto was known for its markets, after all. "Why are you all wet?"
"Swam up the Grand Canal," Gilbert panted, looking wildly about. "The crazy chicken's after me!" He paused. "Why are you dressed so funnily? You look like a clown!"
"You're not in period clothing, dummkopf," Ludwig ground out. "Quick, there's a tailor on the other side of the Rialto Bridge. We might be able to take you there after Feliciano gets his pasta."
"Oh, there you are!" Roderich and Elisabeta had suddenly appeared with bunches of flowers. Elisabeta snorted at Gilbert's sodden appearance.
"What did you do, fall into the Grand Canal?" she demanded.
"Close!" Gilbert puffed his chest slightly. "I swam the Grand Canal!"
"That insufferable rooster is still following you, no doubt," Roderich sighed. "We may have to disguise you. Here." The Austrian grabbed several flowers and expertly wove a garland from them, wrapping the flower chain around Gilbert's head. "You know we've arrived in Venice before plumbing systems were invented, ja? So you've basically been swimming in an open sewer."
Gilbert flushed, although it was hard to tell because his face was obscured by flowers. "Schnause!" he growled.
Even Ludwig had to snort at Gilbert's ridiculous appearance. "We're taking him to the tailor," he said as Feliciano finally secured himself some macaroni. The Italian was grinning brightly from ear to ear.
The group set off to find the tailor. On their way there, they passed by Seychelles, who was holding a string of fish that she had brought from the market on the Campo della Pescheria. Arthur was complaining about the smell; Francis was complaining about Arthur being a spoilsport. Alfred looked suitably bored.
"Bloody hell, Seychelles, do you really have to drag the fish along? The odour's going to damage my olfactory faculties!" Arthur snapped as Alfred stopped Feliciano to see if he had anything good to eat. Ludwig pulled Feliciano away from the American at Gilbert's insistence; the Prussian obviously hated having flowers wrapped around his head.
Francis snickered at Gilbert as the other group walked away. "Arthur, Arthur, just because you get rained on all the time doesn't mean you should rain on other people's parades," he chided as they walked along the quay. Up ahead, Howard the Spy was talking to an old man dressed in richly-coloured clothes.
"Who's he?" Alfred asked, pointing to the man.
"Obviously someone important and rich," snapped Arthur. "Back then you couldn't wear just any colour, you know. Certain fabric colours were restricted to the aristocracy and royalty. At one point the nobility tried to restrict the lower classes to monochromatic outfits, starting a fad of 'slashing' clothes to show different colours."
"Jeez, Artie, how was I supposed to know? Don't talk to me like that!" Alfred pouted. He paused. "Where's Matthew?"
"Qui?" Francis asked. Arthur was squinting at the old man, looking thoughtful.
"Matthew, my brother," Alfred repeated slowly.
"I'm right here, eh," another voice piped up, and Matthew Williams sidled over from a nearby stall where he had been admiring some hand-woven baskets. Kumajiro took the opportunity to pilfer one of Seychelles's fish.
"Oh, good, I thought you had disappeared on me or something," Alfred sighed, unaware of the irony exuding from that statement. The group approached Howard, who was their guide and translator. The old man was still talking to Howard; the two seemed to have noticed Arthur and Francis's group.
"Who is he?" Arthur asked Howard, gesturing to the man. Howard laughed slightly and translated for the man. The man chuckled and answered Howard, who promptly translated for Arthur and the rest.
"He is Antonio Foscarini, a former Venetian ambassador to England and France."
Francis coughed. "No wonder he looked familiar!" he exclaimed; Arthur slapped a hand to his forehead.
"I was thinking the same thing!" he groaned. "Foscarini, is it? I'm delighted to meet you again!"
The man raised an eyebrow. "We have met before?" he asked in thickly accented English. Arthur looked at Francis sharply, but Francis looked just as confused.
"I get the feeling that he doesn't know about us," the Frenchman muttered.
"It's an alternate timeline, isn't it?" Alfred exclaimed. "A history without us as Nations! This is so cool!"
"It's also potentially problematic," Matthew pointed out quietly, watching Foscarini and Howard talk.
Arthur shrugged. "You have a point, Matthew, but I'm intrigued. How does it feel to be simply human?"
Howard didn't seem to be translating their conversation for Foscarini, though, because the former ambassador didn't look that confused. Alfred muttered something about going to an embassy to see if anyone recognised him there.
"Hey, Foscarini," he called, "how do you get to the American Embassy?"
"No, you ruddy Yank! The United States didn't exist at this time. You're supposed to ask for the English Embassy," Arthur snapped. Howard translated for Foscarini, who naturally started looking confused.
"In any case, I think I know where the French Embassy is," Francis said loudly as Alfred complained about not being English. "Matthew and Seychelles can come with me."
"I'm pretty sure I had custody of Matthew at this point!" Arthur growled.
"Get your facts right, rosbif! He was New France until 1763, and right now it's 1619." Francis sniffed and walked away, leaving Arthur, Howard, and Alfred with Antonio Foscarini.
"So, may we get directions to the English Embassy?" Arthur asked sweetly.
"I can take you there," Foscarini replied rather slowly, with all the air of someone being forced to speak a language he didn't understand to a bunch of people he didn't understand. And that may be the case here.
So the group headed for the English Embassy in Venice. As they went, Alfred asked why Venice had embassies despite being a city. Arthur snapped at him for not listening to the historical background.
"Right now Venice is a republic," lectured the Briton. "It's completely separate from the other states in Italy, and it was extremely wealthy and powerful. Only the most powerful Nations at this time could send ambassadors. Lesser states sent residents; the Pope sent nuncios. This is why there's a French Embassy, a Spanish Embassy, and an English Embassy, but a Mantuan Residence. Mantua was only a lesser state and therefore could not send an ambassador."
"That's confusing," Alfred groaned.
"That's how diplomacy worked back then." Arthur shrugged and watched several students sail by in a fleet of gondolas.
"Lucas! What happened?" Karen DuLay called as she raced out of the portal into the IAHF library. Lucas Arch was sitting at a table talking to the remaining members of the Group of Eight and several other students. "I heard something about a mass disappearance, so naturally I got worried and –" she was cut off when Lucas got up and hugged her reassuringly.
"Don't worry; not everyone disappeared," her angelic boyfriend said calmly. "A majority of the teaching Staff did, though, so –" he in turn was cut off by Karen's hyperventilating.
"Oh Mein Gott! Is Ludwig okay? Did he disappear? I'm so worried for him now…"
"Ludwig did disappear, but we've been praying for his safety," Lucas said soothingly, patting Karen's back.
"I don't pray," snapped Jennifer from across the table. "I beam happy thoughts in certain directions."
Lucas rolled his eyes. "We're still trying to figure out what happened exactly. Ninja Kiku got us footage of what happened, but it's rather confusing. See?" He motioned to Merka, who clicked a button on a remote. The portable television flickered to life, showing footage from video cameras in the Orientation Hall. "There's a giant chicken, a suitcase, and lots of Bled light. That makes no sense."
"I hope the chicken didn't eat everyone," Karen replied. Lucas and Dorothy Brown shot her odd looks.
"Why would you say that?" Cain Harren asked.
Karen giggled. "Ever seen a man eating chicken?" Everyone accordingly groaned.
"You're so punny," Kriss grumbled. "Next, we have audio from Hasegawa S., who witnessed the disappearance." She clicked another button, and the half-desk's voice filled the air. Monaco sent them an accusatory glare from her desk, but did nothing to intervene.
After a few moments of the desk rambling about how strange the disappearance was, the tale began. Karen listened with wide eyes.
"I was sitting there all prettily, you know, with all the nice moon cakes arranged on my surface – I know, sounds wrong, right? – when all of a sudden this giant chicken burst into the room. No wait, it was a giant rooster. Chicken. Rooster. Whatever. Anyway, the giant poultry ran into the room squawking about Gilbert. I think it said something along the lines of 'kawaii desu Nazis' and 'kawaii desu rape', but both of those are oxymorons. I mean, since when were Nazis cute? You know, unless they're Nazi kittens. But even then that sounds awful because then the Nazi kittens would pick on the Jewish kittens, which eat kosher mice – I'M JOKING! STOP GLARING AT ME LIKE THAT! I'M SORRY! –"
"Nazi kittens?" echoed Karen. "Like those cats that have Hitler 'staches?"
"Let's not go into that," Merka grumbled, fast-forwarding through the Nazi kitten rant. "Nazis are never cute. They're only funny when they're in Hipster Hitler or something. Moving on."
"Anyway, Giant Poultry bumps into a table and knocks this suitcase thingy to the floor. I have no freaking idea what it is, but the thing must've been some evil mechanical device thingy because it started talking and glowing Bled. I mean, obviously anything that glows Bled is evil, right? But I'm rambling again. Back to the story! The thing said something about transporting things, set the date to 1619 and the location to Venice, and did some crazy shit to the other people because some of the girls were screaming and everyone was like… disappearing. I don't even know. But the last thing I heard from the suitcase before it disappeared was something about getting reports from some dude… Vano or something. I think his name was Vano. Name doesn't ring a bell, but whatever."
"What we can deduce is that something made the students and Staff disappear," Dorothy explained as Merka turned off the telly. "Maybe back in time, since it mentioned a date and a location. We have no idea what the suitcase contained. In fact, the two people who were most often seen with the suitcase disappeared with it along with the others, and we don't know much about them, either."
"They said their names were Ernest Satow and Takeda Kane," Jennifer pointed out. "Work's done some background checks on them."
"Is there anything he can't do?" Kriss demanded.
"Fly a kite during a thunderstorm," Jennifer replied immediately.
"Who'd do that?" Kriss scoffed.
"According to legend, Benjamin Franklin," Merka said. "But Mythbusters thinks that he couldn't have."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever!" Karen said loudly. "What about the background checks, then? What'd you find out?"
Jennifer pulled out a folder. "Ernest Satow was a British diplomat to Japan," she said.
"Just like Mr. Hugh!" Yuki-rin noted randomly.
"He was Mr. Hugh's successor, actually," Jennifer pointed out. "He had previously been a British diplomat to Siam, Uruguay, and Morocco, and he would later serve in China, but he was better known for his activities in Japan anyway because he wrote a book called A Diplomat in Japan."
"Wasn't Mary Crawford's book called A Diplomat's Wife in Japan?" Merka asked, snorting. "They need to come up with better book titles."
"I think Satow should have titled his book The Weaboo Diaries or something," Jennifer continued, "because he was such a rabid Japanophile that he ended up marrying a Japanese woman. That would be Takeda Kane – or Kane Takeda, as she would be known in the West, but I suspect our version of Kane has her name order reversed."
"It must be significant," Kriss deadpanned. "Which other Japanese chick do we know whose name sounds like Takeda?"
Everyone chose not to dignify that with an answer, so Jennifer carried on. "Let's see… he'd be considered a Victorian weaboo, but to be a Victorian weaboo would still be better than a modern weaboo. In fact, Victorian weaboos are probably just considered Japanologists in our times because they study more than just anime and manga. But I'm going off track, so moving on. Satow did some cool things like becoming fluent in Japanese, founding the Asiatic Society of Japan, and finishing Mr. Hugh's work on the Anglo-Japanese Treaty of Commerce and Navigation. He just barely missed out on becoming the first British Ambassador to Japan." She skipped a couple of pages. "Once again, there's something strange going on with this guy because he's more famous in Japan than in Britain. He got to be a Privy Councillor, and some other cool stuff happened… blah, blah, blah… Anyways, he could arguably be one of the first Westerners to really understand the 'Japanese spirit' – you know, the Bushido code and stuff –"
"Enough about Satow, what about Kane?" Kriss demanded.
"Not much to say about her other than she was a commoner and satow couldn't marry her as a diplomat," Jennifer replied. "They had two kids, and one of them became a botanist and founded the Japan Alpine Club. They named some memorial hall after the kid because he was just that cool."
"Cheerful," Lucas groaned. "Still doesn't explain what they were doing at our school and why they were carrying some evil suitcase with them."
"That's the puzzling part," agreed the others.
The time travellers met up at sundown at St. Mark's Basilica. The Marangona, the biggest bell on St. Mark's Campanile, had just rung to signal the end of the working day.
"Everyone's properly dressed?" Ludwig demanded. "Gut, gut. Now, we must figure out where to stay for the night."
"Wait a moment!" Midori Harrison exclaimed, her voice sounding like a wind chime. It even had that nice metallic tinkle to it. "Where's Arthur?"
"And Alfred and Francis!" Dana exclaimed.
"Has anyone seen Howard?" Mary Crawford called.
"Not since earlier this afternoon," Roderich replied, "when we were on our way to the tailor to get Gilbert some clothes."
"Speaking of which, where's that evil rooster?" Andy Kirk asked loudly.
"Probably got caught by one of the luganegheri," Lovino snorted. "You know, the sausage-makers. Good riddance."
"I suspect the Venetians will be supplied with enough chicken sausages to last them until Lent," snickered Mary.
At that moment, Howard, Arthur, and Alfred appeared. "Francis, Matthew, and Seychelles went to the French Embassy," Arthur reported.
"And Howard pulled some strings with this noble guy so we can go live at his place!" Alfred added excitedly.
"Noble guy?" Ludwig demanded, as the students begged Alfred for details.
"His name is Antonio Foscarini, and his family owns the Palazzo Foscarini. It's in the Dorsoduro district –" Arthur was cut off by Feliciano, who looked excited about actually contributing more than pasta to a discussion.
"It's opposite the Church of Santa Maria dei Carmini, isn't it?" Feliciano exclaimed. "It's a pretty palace! I think I visited it once; it's got a big library and a pretty garden!"
"Yeah, so basically the Foscarini guy's letting us stay at his house because he's a nice person and stuff," Alfred replied. "I think he's running for the Venetian Senate or something, but the Venetian government is super confusing."
"How so? It's only made up of six legislatures that check the Doge's power," Chibitalia demanded as the group started heading away from the Piazza San Marco once more. Dorsoduro was located in the south-western side of the city, across the Grand Canal. As the sun set over Venice, some of the more sentimental students stopped to admire how the waters of the canals reflected the dramatic sunset. Elaine was cursing herself for not bringing extra cameras and batteries.
Mr. Hugh and Mr. Allen walked alongside Satow and Kane as the group ventured west towards Dorsoduro, crossing several streets and bridges along the way. Now that they weren't as conspicuous, people were not looking at them oddly anymore. "It's a nice place, don't you think?" Mr. Hugh noted as he shook off Charlie Tenterden for the umpteenth time. "I've always loved this city."
"It's pretty," agreed Mr. Allen noncommittally. He turned to Satow and Kane. "Is the Chronotransporter talking?"
"Still negative," Satow sighed. "It still doesn't want to tell me why it wants to steal Vano's reports, but I think it was a little surprised when Alfred announced that we were going to stay at the Palazzo Foscarini. It twitched."
"Sentient time machines are scary," Mr. Allen remarked. "I wonder why it cared about the Palazzo Foscarini, though."
"It might not be the house," Kane pointed out. "It could be the owner. Antonio Foscarini. Maybe he's important."
Well, of course he's important, snapped the Chronotransporter suddenly.
"We were wondering if you'd fallen mute," Mr. Allen retorted.
You think you're so witty, grumbled the time machine. Foscarini is extremely important. He's the reason behind the objective. In any case, there may have been a couple of miscalculations.
"Miscalculations?" echoed Mr. Allen.
"People are staring. Can we talk about this later?" Mr. Hugh added. They certainly looked out of place once more, talking to a sentient trunk.
It's better to talk about it in a crowded area, reasoned the Chronotransporter. That way our words are drowned out in the noise. Anyway, there have been several miscalculations. We are a year or two short of the actual action.
"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Mr. Hugh snapped as they crossed the Grand Canal via bridge. "What is this 'actual action' that you're babbling about? Explain."
To do that would give away the reason why I need to obtain Gerolamo Vano's reports, no? If the Chronotransporter had possessed eyebrows, it would have quirked them amusedly. I am not prepared to divulge that information just yet. All you need to know is that I might transport us ahead a year or two.
"You could at least take us to Carnival," suggested Mr. Hugh. Mr. Allen elbowed him. "Hey! Last time I came here was during the summer; I missed Carnival!"
I could, the Chronotransporter drawled, or you can stay a month or two in 1619. A little historical camping never hurt anyone, especially when they get to hide out in a palace. I don't see why you're complaining.
"I don't like your attitude," sniffed Mr. Hugh.
I think you should show some respect to a device that decides your fate here, snapped the time machine. I'm a wanted machine. The Mary Sues are trying to find me so they can run around history and mess with it to suit their evil needs.
"Just when we thought we were rid of them for good…" Mr. Allen grumbled, but the Chronotransporter wasn't finished.
I think some of the survivors from that attack last year and some other members of the League of Mary Sue Factories are on the lookout for me. Some may even be in Venice right now. If you value your life and your chance to return to your school, you're going to help me attain my objectives. There's no other way to do it.
"This is blackmail!" hissed Mr. Allen, but the Chronotransporter had fallen silent. "Damn you, you sneaky little suitcase!"
"I guess we'll have to put up with it for now," Mr. Hugh pointed out resignedly. "It has a point. I want to get back to IAHF, and somehow I get this feeling that sabotaging the Vano bloke will help our host in some way. I still don't like this Chronotransporter thingy's attitude, but I think we can trust it."
"For now," pointed out Mr. Allen sourly. Mr. Hugh nodded.
"Yes, for now."