Part XI
Peter wanted to throw his essay across the library. How was he supposed to know what happened in Blender Crossovers? He'd never written one before! And they didn't explain it very well! Just blabbed about stuff about Belgium possibly being Rose and Nations being Scratched Trolls or whatever the fuck that was. He was probably never going to understand Homestuck. Never.
"Calm down," Lila said quietly next to him, not even looking up from her own essay. Peter realised that he had said his thoughts out loud. To say he felt dumb would be like saying that R'lyeh had gotten just a little trigger-happy.
"I just don't get it," he complained. "Wakarimasen –"
Lila coughed.
"Gomen nasai –"
"Peter –"
"Sorry! It just slips! And then –"
Lila looked at him from over her glasses, her expression serious. "Pete, I'm glad you take language class so seriously, but you sound undeniably like a weaboo. Shut up."
Hurt, Peter turned his attention back to his essay. Lila patted him on the back.
"What is it that you don't understand about this, then?"
"Blender Crossovers. I just don't get them. Really. How does someone become someone else, and –"
"It's just suggesting that one or more of the characters have an alternate identity in a different fandom. Gandalf and Dumbledore, for example, can easily be misconstrued to be the same person. In that same vein, maybe Belgium is secretly Rose Lalonde, or maybe the Nations are the Trolls in human form… these sorts of ideas."
"I don't think all of them suck," added Kagaya from across the table. "Just most of them, you know? Sometimes they only go by appearance and not personality, which really sucks because Elisabeta and Hermione are such opposites."
"Wasn't there a Harry Potter crossover where Roderich possessed Harry or something?" Ursula demanded as she walked back to their table and unloaded a pile of books. Kira took the topmost one.
"The Kama Sutra, desu yo? What class do you need that for?" Ursula snatched the book from the half-panda, her face flushing fire engine red.
"Research, dumbass! Not that you've ever done something like that –"
"Are you writing a romance, yo?" Kira's eyes twinkled wickedly. "Does England have a part in it?"
"Fuck no! Ew, Arthur's a disgustingly whiny uke," sniffed Ursula, crinkling her nose. "It's really none of your business what I'm writing –"
Peter and Lila grinned. "If it's not about England, then who is it about?" Peter asked.
Ursula bristled and rounded on him. "Not you two, too! I said it's none of your business! Goddamn it, you lot are so…" she trailed off, stuck her nose in the air, and stalked off to another table with her books. Boris and Alexis were at that table doing their Platonic Love homework. Boris stuck his tongue out at Ursula.
"Do you think she's lying?" Lila whispered. "Hiding something?"
"Ooh, is she in love, yo?" Kira asked eagerly.
"Who'd like Ursula?" scoffed Kagaya.
"We're not sure if that person likes her back, if there's a person at all." Lila sniggered. "Do you think it's the Lovecraftian –?"
Peter shook his head. "Oh come on, he's been missing for a week already."
"Yeah, but what if she misses him?" Lila made an insinuating face. "I mean come on. He's evil, and she's a bitch. It's a match made at Lucas Arch's house."
"How is he evil? From all we saw of him he just acted like a total jackass –"
"I'm telling you, if you gave him a nuke he would have used it." Lila nodded. "It's just one of those things, you know?"
"Stan South said he heard from Jack Ochoa that he once punched someone in the stomach so hard that the other guy threw up." Peter shrugged. "I wouldn't know if that's really evil, per se, but I get what you mean. He does seem as if he's only being polite because he'd get in trouble for murder."
"Wonder where he went."
They fell back into silence. After a moment, Lila looked up from her essay again.
"Anyone else going to Open Mic Night? Starts in half an hour."
"Eh, I'm not done with my essay," Peter groaned.
"Aw, come on. You missed the last one, and the one before that, and –"
"I know. I'm a slow writer."
"Come on!" Lila pouted. "Kira, Kagaya, you two coming?"
"Sure!" Kira grinned. "Totally down with it, yo!"
"In a sec," Kagaya replied. "Lemme finish my conjugation tables for Italian."
Emma dreamt of pretty colours. Pretty colours, pretty lights. Floating, falling, sparkling, shining – she sat in a room full of them.
Emma dreamt of a field, a field full of flowers that were pretty and didn't make her sneeze. Mama stood at the other end. Michael Arch said that Mama was an Angel in Heaven now, whatever that was. She now had wings and dressed in white and sat around playing a harp. And stuff.
"Mama, I told Dadda!" Emma yelled as she ran across the dream-field to her mother, who wore lovely dream-asphodels in her hair. Mama held her close, burying her nose in her hair with a smile. It all felt very real somehow, even if Emma couldn't run or speak proper English yet.
"I know you did, my dear," Mama said. "Walk with Mama."
They set off back through the flowers; Emma picked a nosegay of dream-flowers. "Mama, can I ask you something?"
"Anything, love." Mama had a sad smile. Emma wasn't sure if her Mama would really smile like that, but Dadda always said that she was beautiful and that Emma had her hair, nose, and smile. And eyebrows, too, but that wasn't that much of a problem. Emma was more concerned about her Mama's voice, because she had never heard it.
"Mama, where are you?" she asked after a moment, clutching her bright bouquet in her chubby little hands.
"I am here," her mother replied calmly. "Wherever you want me to be, I will be."
"Will you be with me when I wake up?"
Mama paused. "In your mind, Emma love. I'll be there."
"Do you know what's wrong with Dadda?"
Mama looked off at the horizon of the dream-landscape, a wind blowing through her dark hair. "I don't know what exactly, but your father is in danger of losing his mind again."
"How does someone lose their mind, Mama?"
"Your father might go crazy."
"I don't want Dadda to go crazy."
Mama smiled, as if she knew something Emma didn't. "Love, Mama doesn't want him to be like that either."
"So how do we stop it?"
"I don't know, little one."
"Mama, you don't know a lot." Emma paused. "Sorry, Mama. I didn't mean to hurt you –"
"It's all right. Mama only knows as much as you know."
"And why is that?"
"Mama is here in your head." Mama smiled, tapping Emma's forehead. "Right here. That's how Mama –"
But before she could finish, Emma found herself trembling. The dream-world was shaking, shattering – Emma grabbed for her mother, but Mama flew away upwards –
"Emma!" Ema was gently nudging her awake. "Emma, time for a diaper change."
"Mama!" howled Emma, grabbing for her mother. "MAMAAAAAAAA –"
The door to the nursery banged open and Mr. Hugh stood there. "What exactly is going on?" he demanded, brandishing a copy of the Bled Chronicles. Emma howled louder. "Emma, darling, please! Shhh!"
"MAMAAAAAA! EMMA WANT MAMA!"
Ema was hyperventilating. "Emma, you need to have your diaper changed and we'll get you your bottle and –"
"I'll take care of that! You read this!" Mr. Hugh shoved the paper at Ema and grabbed his daughter, carrying her off making soothing noises. Ema looked at the headlines, which blared:
A DEEPER SPLIT: COURSE COORDINATOR ALLEN CLARKE WANTS COLLEAGUE CHECKED INTO FICPSYCH
Course Coordinator Allen Clarke announced last Wednesday evening at the weekly Group of Eight meeting that he was trying to check his colleague Hugh Fraser into the Department of Fictional Psychology at the Protectors of the Plot Continuum Headquarters. Clarke cites mental instability and dream corruption as the reasons.
"Hughie's never in his right mind. I guess that's what happens when you have Mary Sues lusting after you," Clarke says. "FicPsych will do him good. It's helped the teaching staff. I'm sure they'll help him, too."
Fraser, on the other hand, shrugs it off as mere nightmares and refuses to go in for therapy.
"It's a sign of weakness. I won't stand for it," he says. "It's not hurting anyone, so why worry about it?"
The Department of Fictional Psychology specialises in treatment for characters that have undergone 'Sue-induced shell shock, or Sueshock. While Fraser may not be Sueshocked per se, he is exhibiting some of the symptoms of the disorder, the most prominent being nightmares.
"His little girl somehow knows that he's having these bad dreams, because she's always spelling out messages for me to take to him," Babysitter Ema Skye says. "Can't tell you what's on them, but I can at least say it's scary stuff."
Scary stuff or not, this argument over Fraser's mental health is starting to drive a wedge between him and Clarke, moreso than the split personality they had before. Clarke may have ulterior motives and Fraser may truly be insane, but division at the top may trickle down to division throughout the school.
"I worry about him," Clarke says. "I worry about him a lot."
"Wow, that was totally not a line pulled out of It," Ema deadpanned as she folded the paper back up. Mr. Hugh had situated Emma back in her crib again and was now feeding her.
"Allen does that. He's probably jealous in a way, but I don't see why. I'd trade spots with him in an instant." Mr. Hugh sighed. "Anyway, after this I ought to get back to work. I was going to show you the paper and then I heard Emma screaming, so…"
"She was dreaming again, I think."
"What sort?"
"I don't think she wanted to leave hers."
"Fair enough." Mr. Hugh shrugged as Emma drifted back into sleep, back into her sensations of colour and light.
Beep, beep, beep, beep –
R'lyeh smashed the alarm, glared at his roommate, drew a gun, and shot the calendar down from the wall. His roommate snored on. No sense in waking before the time loop dictated it, right? R'lyeh was tempted to poison him in his ear, but he had already done that a couple of cycles back. Nothing quite like murder to relieve the stress of finding information more elusive than Waldo and Carmen Sandiego put together.
He strode over and picked up the fallen calendar, stuffing it away in his messenger bag as he dressed. Walking into the bathroom, the Lovecraftian City's eyes fell on a bottle of cologne that obviously belonged to Jack.
He stole a little bit and dabbed it behind his neck.
"What's with that grin on your face? You're so cocky today," Jennifer noted minutes later as he entered with Boris and Alexis, the two going on ahead to the cafeteria. "You smell different, too. Did you use cologne?"
R'lyeh shrugged. "I have no idea how that happened, really; why would I willingly scent myself? I was simply washing my face when this giant bottle of cologne attacked me –"
"Sure, sure." Jennifer rolled her eyes.
"Are you mocking me?"
"Don't nuke me, bro!" Jennifer laughed. "Where are we going to look today?"
They walked towards the Staff Section. R'lyeh wondered if he should tell her about the Remote Activator, about Julietta and her possible usage as a spy on their behalf, about Lilith's possible nature. But knowing her, she would probably think that he was insane. Untrustworthy. He'd already bombed her school and killed the inhabitants. Even if their deaths in this time loop were meaningless, the fact that he was the killer would remain imprinted in her mind no matter what. She had every excuse not to forgive him for that, and part of him knew that the only thing preventing him from killing her was that without her he would have to repeat the loop an extra time.
Right, and that attraction thing.
Was that attraction? He doubted it and for the first time, he doubted himself. The mental jury was still out, and chances were they would be out for quite a while. He had forever to live; he might as well stay forever alone. And it wasn't as if she was too good for him – she could be good for him if he could just get the verdict, if he could just take a step –
"You seem unusually lost in thought." Jennifer frowned. "Not plotting another –"
"No, no." R'lyeh shook his head. "I'm just contemplating the thermonuclear power that I have. Not that I will do anything about it just yet. I like power."
"Sure." Jennifer half-smiled. R'lyeh felt a flutter in his stomach. Fucking acidic butterflies.
"Yes! Bow before my sudden thermonuclear might! Bow, I say!" If there was one thing he prided himself upon, it was his devastatingly evil laughter. Absolutely spine-chilling stuff.
Jennifer rolled her eyes, but good-naturedly obliged.
"Excellent! One down, over nine thousand to go!"
"Oh, you." Jennifer stalked on ahead, opening doors and peering in. She paused before the guest room that used to belong to Ernest Satow. "You know what? I suddenly remember something."
"What is it?" R'lyeh stopped at a respectable distance from her, crossing his arms.
"Over the summer, this couple came with a suitcase. They stayed for quite a while and got sent back with everyone else to Venice."
"Really. I've been to Venice before. Excellent feeding grounds –"
"How many gondoliers did you kill?"
"I forgot."
Jennifer stuck her tongue out at him. "Anyhoo, I think this could be a good place to start." She opened the door to Satow and Kane's room. "Go on."
As R'lyeh entered, he brushed past her slightly. His hand rested over hers for a second, and then he was gone. He could have sworn he heard a slight intake of breath from her part, or maybe it was the strawberries kicking in.
Stupid strawberries of unresolved sexual tension.
"Seriously, Alfred? Seriously?" Arthur leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms and legs and shaking his head. "You're letting that idiot run for president?"
"Well, he's got some good points," Alfred mumbled. "Christmas –"
"Oh please," Arthur laughed. "No one's attacking Christmas."
Alfred shrugged. "Personally I don't think he has my vote. Look at how much YouTube hates him."
"Who are we talking about? Rebecca Black?" Francis walked in with a platter of tiny cakes and macaroons. "Bon appétit, everyone!"
"Eurgh, you and your frog-food," Arthur sniffed, but he took a macaroon nonetheless.
"Aw, Artie, don't diss Francis's cooking! It's great stuff –"
"Says Mister Bottomless Stomach," harrumphed Arthur.
"Says Mister Ass-Flavoured Scones!"
"How would you know that's what the scones tasted like?" Francis asked innocently. Gilbert nearly spat out his beer.
Alfred turned bright red. "I meant donkey!"
"You've eaten that?"
"Well, there was this time during the Civil War…"
"Oh s'il vous plaît. Spare us the details." Francis rolled his eyes and mimed vomiting.
"Well it was disgusting." Alfred shrugged.
"Yeah, and the front lines of all other wars were picnics," Arthur deadpanned, shuddering slightly. Ludwig nodded in sympathy.
"Indeed. Although I still haven't forgotten the football."
"Oh come on. That was so 1918." Arthur grabbed another macaroon. "Frogcis, why must you make rose-flavoured macaroons?"
"Because they taste delightful and romantic?"
"Oh shut up."
"You asked the question."
"Forget I did." Arthur sipped his tea. "Anyhow, back to Alfred's circus of a presidential election. I frankly cannot believe it."
"Not my fault." Alfred crossed his arms. "That video was so dumb it got its own Internet meme."
"I'll bet he takes our Canon seriously," chuckled Ludwig. Feliciano suddenly ran up to him, clutching a sprig of mistletoe.
"Luddy, look! I've found some mistletoe!"
"Christmas is over, Feliciano."
"Not over yet in Russia, I think," Toris Laurinaitis remarked from behind his copy of the Bled Chronicles.
"It was hanging all lonely in the corner, so I thought I'd take it and…" Feliciano raised it above Ludwig's head. "Use it!" He pecked the German on the cheek, but no sooner had he done that did the mistletoe explode in his hand, spraying Bled paint everywhere.
Ludwig coughed and averted his eyes. "Congratulations, Feliciano," he deadpanned, "you've discovered the last sprig of Bledstletoe. Now excuse me while I go find more turnips."