A&A&A Boarding School
Authoresses' Note: Oh, we do love this chapter, siriusly (no, but Bellatrix killed him!) No, we do not own that quote. It belongs to a friend who loved him. The seniors come out in full force, among them eternal favourites of ours, like the Marquis de Carabas and Jack Driscoll. The full list of seniors and disclaimers is at the bottom.
This chapter is so long it had to be split into two parts. Nobody should mind much.
Of all the CCAs described in these chapters, the one most heavily lavished with description and care is the Drama Club. This is because Lydia is her school's Drama Club, and she loves her CCA as her life. The drama studio, the form of audition, the computer chairs and the hideous orange sofa are all actual elements of her own Drama Club, and the script is filled with heavy references to their latest play, Yesterday My Classmate Died, and she has gifted all these things to A&A&A's own, with her blessings.
29. CCAs and the Clash of the Seniors
CCA Orientation started right after lunch. All the pent-up suspense that the seniors had been suffering seemed to snap like clockwork unwound, throwing them into the frenzied activity of waiting for juniors to turn up.
The juniors, whom all the fuss was about, were curiously consulting the list of CCAs available, and where they should go to audition.
"Well," said Arwen as she read the posters, "I'm going for Choir. And Drama. What of you?"
"ODAC," said Aragorn.
Arwen turned to stare at him. "Pardon?" she said.
Aragorn repeated himself.
"I've never heard of it."
Aragorn sighed. "Outdoors Activity Club."
Arwen suddenly seemed to recall the name. Her eyes filled with alarm. "But…that's terrible! Adar says that it's one of the most dreadful clubs you can join – people in it get injured."
"I expect they get injured in Drama too," retorted Aragorn. "By falling scenery."
Arwen sighed. "Well, if I can't persuade you otherwise. Good luck."
They parted.
But it is not our fate to follow either of them at the moment, so instead we shall take our tale to where Legolas was standing in a fenced-off section of a grassy headland and glaring bitterly at Paris, and failing that, Haldir.
"You come to the wrong place?" inquired Legolas disdainfully. "This is Archery." The tone implied that Archery was a sacred act of which laymen and sissies like Paris should not even be thinking of partaking of.
"Yes, Archery," returned Paris irritably. "What I want to know is why you're here – shouldn't you be joining Girls' Brigade or something?"
Legolas's face twisted, and things would have been ugly if the seniors had not appeared on the other side of the fence.
They were a motley lot, especially garb-wise; some of them were wearing leather tunics, while the one woman among them seemed to be mainly wearing blue tattoos. Several appeared to be clad in tights. All were carrying bow-and-arrows.
The woman with the blue markings came over and stared at them critically. Eventually she said, "Good day, first-years. I am Guinevere. Come in."
She unlaced the fencing and stood aside to let them pass. As Legolas passed her, he was suddenly given to think of what Elizabeth might look like if she decided to live like a barbarian for a month.
A group of men, dressed in (very tasteless) tights and singing (very badly) looked up with amusement when they saw the three of them. "Oo-oh, juniors," said the leader of the lot, in what appeared to be a failed attempt at an evil cackle. He added for good measure, "Wheeee!"
Guinevere rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Robin!" she yelled, and then leaning in aside to the dark, unkempt fellow who sat in the shade of a tree, "Really, Tristan, I don't know what's going to come of our third-year batch."
"Right," she continued, thrusting a bow and a quiver of arrows brusquely at Paris, "let's see what you can do."
"Er," said Paris nervously, "wh-what do I shoot at?"
Guinevere waved her hand vaguely at the large expanse of jungle/grassland/lake below the headland. "Anything. Just to see how far your range is."
"But…" Paris reflected on this in consternation. "I might hit somebody!"
Guinevere sighed. Legolas smirked. Paris noted the latter with some measure of indignance, and pulled the bowstring taut and let fly. The arrow soared across the headland and plunged in an arc over the edge. The men-in-tights, who had been crouched at the edge, let out a cry as it went past. "Flew over!" "I think it hit the jungle!" "No, not that far, probably the track……" "I said jungle!" "No, track, you fool……"
Guinevere ignored the shouting and passed the bow to Legolas, indicating with a jerk of the head the depression in the grass where Paris had stood and drawn.
Legolas stepped forward. A breeze picked up on cue, sending golden locks a-tumbling back over his shoulder. He closed a hand around the grip, took the arrow in the other, nocked it to the bowstring and drew it back.
He looked out at the landscape, searching – until he saw the distant sparkle of the lake in the jungle's midst. There. That was far enough.
And then the arrow was flying, slicing the breeze like a knife through grease, straighter than a metre-rule, truer than a valentine –
– out on the lake, Jack Sparrow watched with amusement as an arrow flashed out of nowhere and pinned the Head of the Sailing Club to his boat's mast by his sailor hat.
Legolas smirked sideways at Paris, as Guinevere gave a rare and approving curl of the lip, and the third-years applauded and whooped wildly – although he didn't know the latter was not so much due to his archer's prowess but because they had suddenly realised how good he would look in tights.
The Drama Club auditions were being held in a two-storey building that looked like a contraption of collapsible green tin. It smelled of damp and dust, and the overall façade gently suggested spider-webs and not-dusting-under-the-tables, which was more or less what went on inside.
Elizabeth Swann regarded this all in trepidation, before she ventured into the shade of the green tin roof. Arwen was standing at the base of the green tin stairs like an angel at the foot of a green tin Christmas tree, and staring up the steps cautiously.
"You're here for auditions too?" inquired Elizabeth conversationally. Inside she was really thinking: Oh, damnit, that's some tough competition ……
Arwen nodded. "Do you think we should go upstairs?"
Elizabeth looked around. "Are we the only ones?"
"Looks like it," answered Arwen. "Funny, I'd have thought that – "
"Hey, are you going for Drama auditions?"
There was no mistaking those cheerful voices. Merry and Pippin had popped up out of nowhere like helpful pixies.
"Ah, you'll have no problem," said Pippin knowingly. "Our Christine and Carlotta."
"We're hoping to get in as comic relief, us," explained Merry.
"'Cos we're so annoying we're funny," added Pippin.
"Shut up! You're giving them the wrong impression!"
"Is this, like, the drama club auditions?" came an even-less-welcome voice.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and was surprised when Arwen did it at the same time.
Lili Frond was looking more hot-pink than ever. If she was hoping to make a strong first impression, it was certainly a very blinding one. Even glancing at her left spots of glaring pink on the aftervision.
She wasn't alone. Chix Verbil had come too. He had dug out a pair of sunglasses from somewhere. They clashed with his skin tone.
Arwen opened her mouth to make some carefully neutral comment, when a door banged upstairs and a figure appeared on the landing, peering down at them. "Auditions, is it?" he called irritably. "My, my. Well, are you coming upstairs or not? We haven't got all day."
They hastened upstairs. The speaker, when they reached the second level landing, turned out to be a dark-skinned person in a trench coat, sporting a dandyish ponytail. He ran his eyes swiftly over the group, and then his face split into a grin. He had an amazing smile. 'Huge' was an understatement. It had all the eye-catching qualities of a Sunkist orange.
The apparition executed an elaborate bow. "I am," he said elegantly, "the Marquis de Carabas, at your service."
No one was very certain how they should respond to that. "Er," hazarded Arwen, "is that your stage name?"
"The only name that has ever served me," retorted the marquis de Carabas. "But now." He turned on his heel and flung the green door of the studio open. "You might want to come in, before the roof starts to rain."
The studio floor was carpeted, but this possibly only served to disguise the communities of organisms living in it.
It was a dimly-lit room, with several stage blocks lying haphazardly all over the place and people lying haphazardly all over them. There appeared to be some sort of argument going on in one corner.
"……but it's my script, so I get to do the casting!"
"But you can't bloody cast for nuts!" yelled the other. He was shorter than the first speaker, and he fitted the description 'boyish good looks' down to the ingenuous blue eyes. "You always cast Ann!"
"You always cast Satine!" retorted the first speaker. If his opponent was boyishly good-looking, then he was darkly brooding. He was tall, and his nose was nothing if not prominent. "I'll remind you that she starred in the last performance!"
"Ann doesn't fit the role," snapped the second speaker.
"Neither does Satine!" came the angry rejoinder.
They both stopped speaking to draw breath, and glared at each other. Despite their vast differences in looks, they both had similar dress sense – open-collared shirts with rolled up sleeves, and pencils. The first speaker was fiddling with his pencil; the second one had stuck his behind his ear.
Breaths drawn, they both went at it again.
"It's not fair you always take a hand in casting!"
"Well, I'm your senior; doesn't that count for something?"
"Stop pulling rank on me!"
The marquis ignored the commotion and strode past the arguing pair towards a monstrous sofa that took up half a wall. It had been hideously upholstered in orange fur. The auditionees trailed after him, for lack of anything better to do.
The marquis stopped and stared critically at a skinny peroxide-blonde who was lounging on the sofa arm.
"Get off my sofa, Roxie," he ordered.
The blonde made a face at him. "It's not your sofa."
"Is too," replied the marquis loftily. "Get off and don't sit on it again if you know what's good for you, or I'll see to it that your hair turns the same colour as our staircase."
Roxie pouted, annoyed. "You let Ann sit on it."
"I like Ann," said the marquis simply. "She's ornamental."
Roxie slid off irately. "You better not let Jack hear you say that," she added by way of warning, perching on top of a random bar-stool.
The marquis deposited himself gracefully on the sofa, an action which finished with him reclining full-length on it, black motorcycle boots propped up on one furry orange arm. "What's he going to do, hit me with his typewriter?"
A blonde girl in a white dress, who had been trying to interject protests into the argument, appeared to give up and came over instead. The marquis waved a languorous hand at her. "What ho, Miss Darrow?" He appeared quite pleased at the rhyme.
The girl sighed. "Neither's giving ground," she said. "I've said, I really don't mind if I don't get the role – I don't even fit the role, really – but Jack won't hear a word. It's a headache."
"Scriptwriters," said the marquis, sounding quite sadistic about it.
"What's going on?" asked Elizabeth, who had lost track long ago.
The girl appeared to notice them for the first time. "Oh! Are these the auditionees?"
"We are," affirmed Arwen cautiously.
Their senior smiled. "Welcome to Drama Club, then. I'm Ann Darrow, your senior by one year. Don't mind the chaos – it's an everyday thing in our club. They're just having some difficulties over casting our next play."
"Scriptwriters," repeated the marquis. "It's a nightmare, having more than one in a theatre company. They're always at each other's throats. Especially," here he looked slyly at Ann, "if they have favourites."
"I don't know what you're talking about," huffed Ann.
The marquis pointed at the one with the pencil behind his ear. "Christian over there's our vice-chair. He was all set to be Chairperson of Choir, except that he's hopelessly in love with our Chairperson Satine, so he moved over here entirely to be resident scriptwriter."
"And the other one?" asked Elizabeth, intrigued.
"Oh, that's Jack Driscoll," said the marquis dismissively. "He's the Other Scriptwriter. He's obsessed with dear Ann here – every role he writes, he writes for her."
"Oh, do shut up," snapped Ann uncomfortably.
The marquis spread his hands. "It's common knowledge, darling. You might as well let the – "
The door banged open again, and a young woman entered. She had dark hair cut in a classy bob, and the strut in her walk screamed diva. She had huge dark eyes, her eyelids loaded so thickly with black eyeshadow that if she blinked too fast, her make-up would probably remain suspended.
She paused in her stride next to Roxie's bar-stool, and looked down her nose at the blonde, who pretended she hadn't noticed the newcomer. "Hey, kiddo," said the black-haired girl in a throaty growl, "that's my bar-stool."
"Who died and made you diva, Velma?" retorted Roxie cattishly.
Velma appeared to consider this. While she did, she calmly lit a cigarette that had been illegal the last time the first-years checked. "Well, certainly not you, wannabe."
Roxie leapt up with a gasp of fury. "You low-brow tramp!"
"Shut your face, hussy," snapped Velma, spitting out smoke in her direction.
"You dirty chiseler!"
"Painted jezebel!"
"Cheap floozy!"
"Airhead."
"Why, you goddamn bi – "
The marquis shook his head sadly. "It's always like this. Every session. A fellow can't get any peace around here, can he?" He honoured the first-years with a wide grin. "Do me a favour, one of you." He pointed at a trio of suave-looking third-years clustering on some nearby stage blocks. One of them was crunching insouciantly on a cheese-dripping tortilla. "If you steal his Nachos chips for me," went on the marquis with an evil grin, "I shall put in marks for you under Stagehand Material."
Merry and Pippin, looking delighted, broke away from the group and began to plan an attack strategy.
"You're incurable," said Ann sadly, and went back to the scriptwriters' quarrel, which was astonishingly still going strong. Her attempts to break it up only appeared to fuel it further, and the noise level in the studio was crescendo-ing to an unbearable level when suddenly, the door opened.
It wasn't flung open, but opened slowly and gracefully, in a way reminiscent of the Lady Galadriel. In stepped a young woman – a stunningly beautiful young woman. She was of incredibly statuesque proportion, with strawberry-blond curls cascading down her arms, and every feature was that of a classic goddess. She paused in the doorway, one arm extended in a way that displayed the whiteness of her skin, and cast a smouldering look around the room.
Everybody immediately stopped arguing to look at her.
"Am I late?" asked this vision of allure in the most musical of voices. "I do hope I haven't kept you waiting."
"Of course not, Satine," said Christian. His voice sounded unnaturally dry.
"So dreadfully sorry." Satine, Chairperson of the Drama Club, swept past her subjects until she reached the group of potential members, which she favoured with a breath-taking smile. "We'll start auditions now, shall we?"
The auditionees, throats dry, nodded.
"We'll start with you, my dear," said Satine to Elizabeth, who blinked. "The rest of you, stand outside till you're called."
As her compatriots trooped out, Satine turned the force of her dazzling smile on Elizabeth, who reeled. "We'll be doing an impromptu test on you," she explained. "That means, we give you a scenario and a senior to act with, and we see how well you do. It's that simple."
She made a languid motion with her hand, and the floor automatically cleared, leaving Elizabeth alone on the carpet. A row of three desks had suddenly appeared in front of her, with Christian on the left scribbling furiously and the marquis de Carabas reclining indolently in a computer chair on the right. He winked at her.
Satine took her place between both of them, tucked a strand of red hair behind a ear and picked up a pen. "Ann, Jack, act with her."
Ann Darrow and Jack Driscoll got up and stood on either side of Elizabeth. Both gave her encouraging smiles.
"Scenarios please, Rusty," announced Satine.
The consumer of Nachos Chips got up from the sidelines and passed the judges a top hat full of pieces of paper. On the way back to his seat, he tossed Elizabeth a grin. It looked rather shark-like.
Christian reached into the hat and picked out a piece of paper. He read it, then clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.
The marquis took it from his shaking fingers and raised an eyebrow at it. Then with a perfectly straight face, he said, "This is your scenario. Ann and Jack are your parents. You have to tell them over dinner that you're lesbian. Okay, you may start now."
Aragorn trekked through the underbrush. He had left the beaten track a while ago, and had been pushing through mysterious clinging bushes for nearly fifteen minutes already. The small map printed on the back of the ODAC flyers wasn't much help. He was wondering if part of the auditions was actually finding the location.
He was about to give in to Arwen's philosophy and turn back, when he heard voices.
There turned out to be a clearing ahead, with three other fellows in it. The first was chewing a school-contraband cigar. The second was chewing a straw. The third was chewing his hair.
"What say we go back to school, eh?" said the first. He was tall and lanky, regarded the world through narrow blue eyes, and spoke with a sardonic and accented drawl. As he spoke, he reached down and scratched the ears of a thin, shabby hare crouched beside the rock upon which he sat. "There ain't nobody coming. Ain't nobody come last year, and we all done made fools of ourselves, sitting out here waiting for nobody."
"Two years in a row," sighed the second, spitting the straw out. "Can't get a CCA with an attendance worse than that."
"Mmrlf," supplemented the third.
"Where's our chairpserson, anyway?" went on the first. "And the vice-chairs. Not, of course, that I mind if they don't turn up. That Lara is a real slavedriver when it comes to – "
"To what? Morning drills?"
This was a new voice. It was laced with honey and superiority, and it was coming from somewhere overhead. All three immediately flinched, and then glanced up. There was a slim young woman in black tank top and outdoors shorts, long hair pulled back into a ponytail, balancing on a branch. She was amazingly attractive, with the sort of lips that looked like they had taken an overdose of silicon injections.
"Hello, boys," said Lara Croft. She somersaulted smoothly off the branch; all three flinched again as her trek boots smacked into the ground before them. She nodded to each of them in turn. "Hello, Lee. Hello, Rick. Hello, George."
"Hello, Lara," returned Lee, recovering his composure. "Thought you weren't coming – you're pretty late, huh?"
"It's a woman's prerogative to be late."
This time, the voice came from behind Aragorn. He spun around and came face to face with an extraordinarily tall young woman: she was an inch taller than himself. She was astoundingly and dangerously beautiful; her skin was the colour of burnt caramel, her hair tawny as a lion's mane. He had no idea how long she had been standing there; he probably wouldn't have been able to tell till she had spoken. Her dappled leather clothes were mottled in grey and brown; if they hadn't been standing a few inches apart she wouldn't have been there at all.
"Hello, Hunter," called Lara as the newcomer steered Aragorn into the clearing. "There. No need to be pessimistic, boys."
Lee addressed Hunter with mock severity. "You've been hanging out too damn much with Mina Murray. That's her adage."
Hunter shrugged. Her bare shoulders were laden with more sinew than most large cats. "I don't consider Mina bad company, Scoresby. I consider myself bad company."
Lee shrugged back at her. "You know what Quatermain would say."
"Speaking of Quatermain," continued Rick, "where is the fellow?"
Lara Croft made her mouth a perfect ellipse of surprise. "Why, Mr. O'Connell, how uninformed of you. Allan Quatermain was shot in the foot this Monday. He and James Bond were put into the Special Ward in the Hospital Wing. Bond escaped yesterday through the ventilation, but I think our dear Allan is still too injured to walk. Therefore, Hunter and I will be taking ODAC practice for today."
"Poor Quatermain," mused Rick. Then, as the impact of the second sentence sank in, he started in alarm. "Not you!"
"Whyever not?" inquired Lara pleasantly. "This is so exciting. And look, we have a new recruit. I'm sure he's absolutely raring to go for his audition, aren't you, Mr…"
"My name's Aragorn," said Aragorn, slightly disturbed.
"Aragorn," concluded Lara. "Now, your audition will be simple. We're just going to do what we normally do every week – all you have to do is keep up."
"Oh," said Aragorn. "That's all?"
Lee Scoresby made a face at him. "You're going to wish you never said that, kid, not when Lara's leading the expedition. Quatermain preserve our souls."
"It's a pity they don't have Quidditch," lamented Harry as he and Ron strode across the softball field. "Why don't they have Quidditch?"
"Acrophobia, maybe," said Ron philosophically. "Still, it was bloody brilliant, the way you fielded that pitch. They took you in like a shot."
"Still," said Harry sadly, "Softball isn't Quidditch."
Ron gave him a commiserating look, as they entered the cool of the building. Hermione was waiting for them at the foot of the spiral staircase.
"I see you got into Softball," she said, by way of congratulation. "Was it easy?"
Harry shrugged. "More or less."
"Well, I hope I get into ISGS," said Ron devoutly. "Are their auditions hard, do you know?"
"We'll find out, won't we?" Hermione turned and went up the stairs in the direction of C3-03. They trailed after her.
On the third floor they encountered Artemis Fowl, who was looking uncharacteristcally cheerful. Hermione stopped and regarded him with a gaze laced with suspicion.
"Well," she snapped, "how many?"
"Two so far," said Artemis with cheerful calm. "Robotics and Advanced Math Club."
"I've joined Library and Tribune," retorted Hermione. She hugged her perennial books to her chest and strode on down the corridor; however, noticeably slowing down her usual locomotive pace to keep step with Artemis's casual saunter. Harry and Ron, who were getting used to Hermione's demand for intellectual competition/conversation, fell back and observed the proceedings from a distance.
"Library?" sniffed Artemis scornfully. "I wasn't even aware that was a CCA."
"Never mind that it's been defunct for ten years," rejoined Hermione, anxious to defend her new CCA. "Goodness knows Evelyn needs someone who can actually memorise the whole Dewey Decimal system. Anyway, she promoted me to vice-chair."
"Because there's no one else in the CCA."
"That is beside the point!" exclaimed Hermione hotly. She directed her glare at the sizeable bunch of pens that Artemis's pale fingers were curled around. "Someone's running out of stationery fast, is he?"
"Oh, the Math Club gave them to me," replied Artemis airily. "It's sort of an emblem of esteem, you see, a form of accolade, giving pens. They were very impressed by the method through which I disproved John Nash's cosecant y-intercept hypothesis."
Hermione decided to leave that topic alone, because she clearly wasn't as familiar as he at mathematical jargon. "So, joining a third one already?"
"I was considering the International Strategy Game Society," said Artemis smoothly. "I received a personal invitation from the chairperson herself."
"I know what ISGS stands for, I plan to join too," responded Hermione testily. "So does Ron."
Artemis appeared to remember Ron's existence. "Ah, yes. Pleasant, I'm sure."
"Here we are," pointed out Ron, who resented being regarded as being of average intelligence.
C-303 was a modest, unassuming room filled with desks, upon which various strategy board games had been set up. Jean Grey greeted them at the door; Hermione was annoyed by the way with which she addressed Artemis as an old friend.
"You may audition through any of the games present," she explained, indicating the assortment of games on the desks. "You play one game against one of us. Artemis, if I recall correctly, will be auditioning through chess?"
"Indeed," concurred Artemis graciously.
"Me too," said Ron, eager to be in on the action. "I'm Ron Weasley."
"Hermione Granger," announced Hermione, putting on her most social smile. "Do you have Scrabble here?"
The players were paired off. Harry took a seat in the corner and watched Ron sit down nervously opposite Waverly Jong, the American-Chinese vice-chair of ISGS, who sized him up coolly across the chessboard, and then made her move.
Jean Grey called over to a group of second-years who were playing some ancient board game that involved complicated dice. "Tiamat, Simeon – you lot! Two of you come over and play Scrabble. That's enough Twenty Squares for now." There was some bickering about who should go, but in the end the thin Jewish boy, Simeon, and the small girl Tiamat, were shoved out. Simeon grinned uncomfortably at Hermione as he selected his tiles.
Jean herself played Artemis.
Artemis stared, stone-faced, as his opponent moved a rook to challenge his knight. He ignored the threat, instead concentrating on pulling his pieces into an elaborate formation.
Jean brushed a strand of reddish hair out of her eyes. Her rook made a sudden turn in direction and snagged his bishop, disrupting the formation. Artemis blinked, startled.
She's reading you, piped up a faint voice in the back of his head. She's looking at what you're thinking six moves ahead.
That was it. Artemis shut his eyes for a brief second, searching the glimmering recesses of his mind – and located the invading presence.
Let me do something, shrieked the muffled Voice. I can stop her!
Artemis calculated the risks. On one hand, he was averse to letting the Voice out again. On the other, nothing overly dangerous could occur, especially if Jean was at hand.
He reached out mental fingers and flicked a cerebral switch.
The Voice soared out in a cackle, blazing a brilliant firewall across his brain so bright that he nearly flinched. It surrounded the threads of his thought processes, strengthening its defenses against the probing outside mind.
Nyeeheeheeheehee! screeched the Voice. Now I shall –
Its words were abruptly cut off as Artemis turned the invisible switch off, and became no more than a muffled shouting in the back of his head.
Across the chessboard, Jean Grey blinked once, twice, and then gave an grin of acknowledgment. "Clever of you," she said, moving the rook.
Artemis took the rook with his knight and reassembled his formation. In three more steps he had won.
"Impressive," admitted Jean. "You're in – you were actually in from the beginning, because we need more telepaths. But your chessplaying is surprisingly extraordinary."
"Thank you, mademoiselle," said Artemis politely. He turned to watch Hermione win – as expected – the Scrabble game, and shake hands with Tiamat and Simeon. Ron had lost his game to Waverly Jong, but he was still accepted, on account of Waverly's appraising review on his strategy.
"Welcome to ISGS," said Jean Grey cheerfully. "Training sessions are every Wednesday afternoon in this classroom. See you then."
"How was it?" inquired Harry as Ron exited the classroom, looking worn out.
"That Waverly Jong is a bloody vicious player," complained Ron. "She's got all these ghastly strategies, wipe out all your formations."
"Well, she is Vice-chair," Harry reminded him. "Where's Hermione?"
"Probably gone to find a fourth CCA," said Ron sardonically. "I don't care to follow her. Let's go and get some tea."
End of Chapter
Next chapter coming…CCAs and the Clash of the Seniors II
Characters appearing in this chapter:
Guinevere and Tristan from King Arthur
Robin Hood and his Merry Men from Men in Tights
The marquis de Carabas and Hunter from Neverwhere (Neil Gaiman)
Roxie Hart and Velma Kelly from Chicago
Ann Darrow and Jack Driscoll from King Kong
Christian and Satine from Moulin Rouge
Rusty Ryan, Tess and Danny Ocean from Ocean's Eleven
Lee Scoresby from His Dark Materials (Philip Pullman)
Rick O'Connell from The Mummy
George from George of the Jungle
Lara Croft from Lara Croft
Allan Quatermain and Mina Murray from The League of the Extraordinary Gentlemen (Alan Moore)
John Nash from A Beautiful Mind
Jean Grey from X-Men
Waverly Jong from The Joy Luck Club (Amy Tan)
Tiamat and Simeon from The Babylon Game (Katherine Roberts)
With references to Alfian Sa'at's Yesterday My Classmate Died, adapted by Amanda Chong for the English Language Drama Society.