"The interests of a writer and the interests of his readers are never
the same and if, on occasion, they happen to coincide, this is a
lucky accident."
- WH Auden (no relation to WH Smiths)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
[SCENE: A flat in Manchester. It is raining again. CODERSUBI is
sitting at the PC typing away and occasionally swearing, MUSICSUBI is
standing in front of the stereo making Peter Hook style poses with a
guitar, and ARTSUBI and WRITERSUBI are slumped in front of the
television clutching their stomachs.]
ARTSUBI: FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!
CODERSUBI: Hang on...
WRITERSUBI: I can't. I don't have the strength.
CODERSUBI: Nearly done...
ARTSUBI: In the name of the Maker we haven't eaten in FIVE MONTHS!
Will you STOP fiddling with that memory-hungry command-line
monstrosity and GET INTO THE BLOODY KITCHEN!
CODERSUBI: The last version of 3FT (find it at
http://www.gameart.com/4ca/code.html folks) was very popular with
the FFML, and I WILL get the new version out soon, so shut up.
WRITERSUBI: It's no good, you know what video game coders are like.
He codes all day at work then he comes home and codes some more.
Mad.
ARTSUBI: Sad.
WRITERSUBI: Sad _and_ mad. I think we're going to have to start
speaking his language.
ARTSUBI: Good idea. Pass the hardware reference manual.
WRITERSUBI: I can't. I'm too weak.
[MUSICSUBI does a particularly wild Pete Townsend windmill and knocks
the relevant volume off the shelf onto ARTSUBI's head, who loses
consciousness.]
WRITERSUBI: That was lucky. Wake up.
ARTSUBI: Whaaah...?
WRITERSUBI: Okay... lessee...
ARTSUBI: Use the floating point unit, it's quicker.
WRITERSUBI: Yeah, but the kitchen's _definitely_ an integer... I
mean, _look_ at it. Right, here goes.
float f = CODERSUBI;
int i = KITCHEN;
_asm
{
fld f
fistp i
mov eax, i
}
[CODERSUBI vanishes and immediately reappears wearing a chef's hat
from the kitchen.}
CODERSUBI: Corned beef hash alright with everyone?
ARTSUBI: Yup.
[WRITERSUBI sits in front of the PC.]
WRITERSUBI: ...and while he's doing that I'll get the next episode of
Republic written...
ARTSUBI: Get a move on. I've got some ecchi to draw.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
NO OFFENCE INTENDED
If you're mentioned here, it is only because I hold your works in deep
awe and high regard. _Please_ don't get cheesed off. None of you
die, I promise. C&C is always welcome, and flames are attention of a
sort at least... ;)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
THE BIT THAT COMES BEFORE THE TITLES TO TELL YOU WHAT YOU'VE MISSED
I was eight, living with the parents in a village that had been
transported brick-by-brick from its original position in middle
England to just outside Tokyo. My father worked for the Japanese
government, fooling visiting foreigners about the true nature of the
product of the vast silicon chip mines. One day a girl called Tuzi
turned up and claimed to be my sister. Somehow, everyone believed
her, even my parents, despite the markings on her face and the rabbit
ears. But _I_ knew, oh yes.
A few days had passed since our little trip to the big old house on
the hill, which I had decided was best forgotten. While I was curious
what Tuzi had done with Nova's creature, I felt it best that I didn't
know. A little peace and quiet would not go amiss, so I could really
concentrate on finding out more about her. As long as I didn't get
distracted...
[Archived at http://www.gameart.com/4ca]
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Republic of Desire
Part five: EXPOSITION! Or BETTER END THIS BEFORE I FORGET THE
INCREDIBLY CLEVER TRICK ENDING I THOUGHT OF ON THE BUS LAST THURSDAY!
Subi [23/10/00]
----------------------------------------------------------------------
It was getting near the end of the PE lesson, and, as usual, I was
caught up in my own little world of pain. And for a little world, it
damn well had a lot of pain in it. My breath wheezed in and out of my
juvenile frame, my lungs were consumed by fire, the sweat pooled on my
brow and ran down the side of my face (the left side, if I recall) and
my heart pounded away like a Dutch techno record. I was never much of
a one for games, except one. But of that, more and later.
"Are you all right?" asked Biles, jogging besides me. Mr Kenshiro had
us doing fifty laps of the playing fields, and in the distance the
school buildings shook under the impact of our assault on the turf.
"Just... the... haaah..." I gasped, unable to finished the sentence.
"Withdrawal symptoms again?" said Biles. I nodded. "You should try
these," he continued, I looked up at the screen and saw him tap his
shoulder where what looked like a large circular sticking plaster was
just visible under his T-shirt sleeve. "Nicotine patches, they get me
though games."
"Bully for you," I said sourly, rapidly clenching and unclenching one
set of fingers whilst drumming the others against the control panel.
"Got any way of getting one in here to me?"
"Nope."
"Right." I gritted my teeth, and decided I couldn't wait ten minutes.
"Stuff it," I said, "I'm going to have a quick one. Old Seven-Scars
won't notice." I pushed the cigarette lighter on the dashboard in and
rummaged in my pockets for my pack of Marlboro. "Comoncomoncomon!" I
enthused, and "Yes!" as the lighter popped back out again. I lit up
just as we came to the end of the fifty and started on the press-ups.
I hit the button with "autopilot" written on it and sighed
beatifically.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," said Biles, and his screen blanked.
The gentle up-down motion lulled me into a sense of peace, so the
sudden (and very loud) siren that went off right next to my ear was
particularly unkind. The lights dimmed to that really nasty blood red
colour which means "something bad has just happened, and it's best for
all concerned if you can't see it very well." I dropped the smoking
dog-end into my lap in shock, and the screen lit up again, this time
with Mr Kenshiro's raging countenance on it.
"No smoking in the RX7s!" he thundered as I fumbled for the fire
extinguisher. "See me afterwards!"
"Told you," said Biles, reappearing in the opposite corner of the
screen as I frantically sprayed carbon dioxide into my lap and sighed
again, this time in relief. "If you're going to smoke in PE..."
"...disable the smoke alarm," I finished. "Yeah yeah yeah, I forgot,
okay?" I blanked the communication screen and switched to the outside
monitor. I zoomed in on the girl's class, where Coach Ota was
singling Noriko out again. A wisp of smoke drew my attention to
another of the robots, which was spurting faint blue clouds through
its vents. Tuzi, I thought. "Or turn on the air conditioning," I
muttered, and tuned the radio to my favourite pirate station, which
broadcast from the future.
"...ul - ture - must - not - sus - pect," said the radio. "They will
not," it continued in a different voice. Sounded like Professor Nova,
I thought with a shudder, remembering the blood I'd found on the grass
outside his house in episode three. "ThFFFFFFZZZT -" said the radio
as I gave it a kick. It got the message, and music from fifteen years
later filled the cockpit.
"...ting in the dreamy days by the water's edge,
On a cool summer's night.
Fireflies and stars in the sky, gentle glowing light,
From your cigarette.
The breeze blowing softly on my face,
Reminds me of something else.
Something that in my memory's been misplaced,
Suddenly all comes back, and as I look to the stars,
I remember the time when you were a girl from Mars,
I don't know if you knew that.
Oh, we'd stay up late playing cards in -"
The lesson finished and I hit the OFF switch. I was deep in thought
as we trooped back across the rugby field to the hanger. Mars? Maybe
she was. After all, anything was possible.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Fortunately Mr Kenshiro didn't make me clean all sixty RX7 training
robots as I had expected him to. Coach Ota had already given that job
to Noriko. Again. Old Seven-Scars did confiscate my cigarettes
though, which meant I had to go to lunch via my locker to pick up
another pack. I caught up with Tuzi and Biles outside the canteen
just as it opened.
"Prat," said Tuzi. I hung my head and she patted it with mock
sympathy. "Never mind, Noriko got there first."
We patiently stood in line, waiting our turn. We held our bags on top
of our heads for protection until Ranma and Ryoga finished their daily
scrap over the last piece of curry bread. Unbeknownst to them the
kitchen staff deliberately engineered the "last whatever bread"
scenario on a daily basis, and took bets on the outcome. As did we,
and Biles won handsomely yet again, which meant _he_ was paying for
the meals.
Having been born near the city with the largest Hindu-Caucasian ratio
in Europe, I laughed at what the school cooks dared to call "curry",
and instead opted for the battered unadon and chips. But then again,
I always was a pretentious twat when it came to Indian food. I
sighed, thought longingly of a chicken balti with pilau rice and
popadoms, and took my place at the table.
"So what exactly _is_ the point of doing physical education classes in
big robots?" asked Tuzi, plonking her tray down in the space next to
me.
"Search me," I said with my mouth full. Distinctly rubbery I thought.
"You're eating the table mat," said Tuzi. "Your food's over there."
I spat that mat (which had a picture of a cat on it) out and
shamefacedly dragged my plate over. "Is he all right?" I heard
someone ask.
"He's fine," replied Tuzi. "He's just not integrating into Japanese
society very well."
"Can't tell the difference between the food and the table decorations
for a start," said Biles. "And he can't speak Japanese either."
"Aha!" I said. "That's where you're wrong! Take a look at this." I
pulled a small device from my pocket, wiped off the crumbs and fluff
and handed it to Biles. He turned it over in his hands.
"What's this? Akihabara's answer to the Rubik's Cube?"
"Oh that's close, but I'll have to pass it over. It's a universal
translator, the latest thing. My father's company's testing them at
the minute."
"How does it work?"
"Haven't the foggiest," I replied, leaning forward for effect. "BUT
IT DOES."
"Let's have a look," said the someone, a fair-haired boy on the other
side of the table. In the manner of all schoolboys concerning items
belonging to other people Biles passed it over without hesitation.
"I'm having a bit of trouble with Japanese myself. Only been here a
week."
"Try it," I said. "That switch there."
"Okay. 'KYONU DAI YON,'" he said, rather louder than expected. A
hushed silence descended across the canteen and a passing dinner lady
clipped him around the ear. "Ouch," he continued.
I took the device back while he was rubbing his ear. "See?"
"You'd better not've been looking at me when you said that by the
way," said Tuzi. Biles and I nodded vigorously in agreement. The boy
shook his head hurriedly.
"I don't even know what it means," said he. "The bloke sitting next
to me in class said it would get a real laugh if I said it in public."
"His name wasn't Kaneda by any chance?" I asked.
"Good guess," said the boy.
"Hang on," said Biles. "If it came out of the machine in Japanese,
you must've said it in Eng..."
"Are you English too?" said the boy hurriedly.
"Is it that obvious?" I said.
"To be frank, yes," replied the boy.
"Fair enough. What's your name?"
"Lyn," he said. Biles and Tuzi nodded, as if their suspicions had
been confirmed. "What?"
"Nothing," I explained. "It's just that that explains why you're
wearing a short-skirted sailor suit like Tuzi here." He blushed.
"Is it that obvious?" he said.
"To be frank, yes," replied I. "I had a similar problem myself.
Don't worry, It'll be sorted out soon." I glanced briefly at Tuzi,
who nodded.
Instantaneously our new teacher, Mr Manabe, walked up to our table.
"Are you Lyn An-" he began, but Lyn flapped his arms in a "don't say
it" motion.
"Not so loud, please," he shushed. "Yes, that's me."
"It would appear that there has been a small bureaucratic error in
your gender designation," said Mr Manabe. "Would you come with me
please?" Lyn followed him out of the room and returned a few minutes
later more conventionally attired in a dark high-collared jacket and
trousers.
"How _do_ you do that?" I asked Tuzi, as Lyn thanked her. Tuzi just
grinned.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The conversation continued as Lyn underwent the usual "new boy"
interrogation. He was from the south of England, son of a well-off
family. His father was something high up in the United Nations and he
lived in Igirisu-on-the-Hill like the rest of us, in the house next to
the church. He also liked cricket.
"What's that?" asked Tuzi. Lyn and I stared at her in abject
amazement.
Lyn recovered first. "Are you sure she's your sister?" he asked.
"No," I said. "Not in the least."
"Oh but I am," said Tuzi, staring at Lyn. "Can't you see the family
resemblance?"
"Ye... es..." said Lyn, his eyes glazing over momentarily. I sighed,
it was hopeless. Best to live with it.
"Surely you already know about cricket?" I asked her. "You seem to
know about everything else."
"True, but most of the readers don't share your obsession, so I need
to take on the role of the audience and have it explained to me so
they can understand the rest of this episode without the need to keep
a copy of Wisden handy."
"Wouldn't it be more feasible for me to explain it to Biles?"
"Maybe," she replied. "But he might actually know about cricket.
It's not as if you know him personally in real life, you know. You're
just using his name for sensationalism. And it didn't work."
I was getting confused. "This is getting needlessly metaphysical.
What do you mean I don't know him? And what do you mean by 'real
life?'"
"Nothing. Just explain this 'kricket' thing to me."
I narrowed my eyes at the sarcasm. "Cricket. All right."
Biles, who had lost interest early on and had been reading a book,
sneezed and looked up from his plate. "What're you talking about?" he
said, wiping his nose on his shirt cuff.
"Cricket."
"What's that then?"
I looked at Tuzi, who just shrugged. "Explain it to both of us then,"
she said.
"Okay," I took a deep breath and pulled out my pencil.
"Put it away," said Tuzi. Remembering my schoolboy slang in the nick
of time I instead pulled out my _pen_ and drew a quick diagram on a
napkin.
"It's like this," I said. "Two teams, eleven men in each, play on a
wide circular field with a strip of mown grass in the middle twenty-
two yards long."
"What the hell's a yard?" asked Biles.
"Imperial measurement. Later. At each end of the strip are three
poles, called stumps, stuck in the ground with two short ones, called
bails, balanced on top. They're the wickets. The batsmen stand in
front of these."
Lyn joined in. "The match is divided into innings. Two or four
usually. An innings is where one team fields, usually with two slips,
a gully, a third man, an extra cover, a midwicket, a deep backward
square, a mid on and a mid off."
"As well as the bowler and wicket keeper of course." I added. "And
the other team takes it in turn to bat, two at a time."
The blank looks on the faces of our audience told me that perhaps a
more physical illustration was required. The canteen was fairly empty
by this time, so I motioned to Lyn and we cleared a space in the
middle of the room by shoving the tables against the walls. Two
chairs served as the wickets.
By now the whole room was watching these two Englishmen who had
apparently forgone the midday sun and had gone mad indoors. Lyn
abstracted a French loaf from a bemused dinner lady and assumed the
position at one end. "You a batsman usually then?" I asked. He
nodded. "Good-oh. Pass me that orange, would you Tuzi?" Tuzi threw
the fruit at my head, but _that_ I was used to. Those years spent at
silly point had not been wasted, and I caught it easily.
I measured out my run-up, continuing to talk as I did so. "The bowler
bowls the ball at the batsman from the opposite end, trying to hit the
wicket, which would mean the batsman was out. The batsman has to stop
the ball from hitting the wicket by striking the ball with his bat.
If he stops the ball with any part of his body then that's leg before
wicket, LBW, and he's out as well."
"Once the batsman's struck the ball," continued Lyn, inserting a
couple of side plates into each sock, "he and his partner at the
opposite end run between the wickets while the fielding team recover
the ball. If the ball crosses the boundary then that's automatically
four runs scored, and if it crosses without bouncing it's six."
I spat on the orange and rubbed it against my trouser leg. Tuzi and
Biles raised their eyebrows, so I stopped before _that_ gag got
started. "The fielding team can then get a batsman out by catching a
struck ball before it hits the ground, or by knocking the bails off
the wicket with the ball while that batsman's bat's still outside the
crease, the area just in front of the wicket."
Lyn patted the floor with the French loaf. "After each team has had
their innings, the one with the most runs scored wins."
"So," I said, twisting the orange into my hand. "Now that that's all
clear, time for a little demonstration." I pounded up to the chair at
my end and let fly with a fast one, aiming to bounce it just under
Lyn's loaf. Lyn nonetheless thwacked it straight over the heads of
the assembled not-so-multitude, through the open doors and straight
down the corridor. There was a startled cry and within moments the
orange returned, bourne by the considerable figure of Mr Kenshiro.
I turned to Lyn. "Caught," I said.
"Not so," replied the lad. "Surely the doors were the boundary.
That's a six. Oh shit."
Meanwhile the onlookers, possessed of a slightly better grasp of the
situation than we in our fantasy world had had, had melted away
leaving us to face the wrath of Old Seven-Scars alone. (Had had had?
I ask you!)
"What the _hell_ are you two little sods doing?!" he squeaked.
An ashen-faced Lyn held up the now bisected French loaf, the sight of
which had Mr Kenshiro wincing. "Are we in trouble, do you think?"
Tuzi stuck her head back round the door for a second. "Yes. And you
can keep the orange."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
All told, we got off pretty lightly. For some reason or other Mr
Kenshiro seemed in no mood to wreak his usual terrible vengeance and
merely slumped in a chair with some ice from the sushi bar resting on
his crotch. Our repetition of the rules of cricket had their usual
calming and soporific effect and piqued his curiosity. And so, after
Lyn and I had spent the afternoon in the hall holding about twenty
buckets each, Tuzi found me on the playing fields wrestling with a
mile or so of fishing net and some old tent poles.
"Did I miss much?" I asked her. She shook her head.
"Nope, Manabe spent most of the lesson wittering on about dragons and
the rest of the time hiding under his desk in case his editor found
him. What are you doing?"
"Rigging up a practise net."
"Why?"
I threw the net over the poles, which I had lashed together into two
long rows. "Because Old Seven-Scars wants to see a cricket match."
Her eyes widened. "You're joking."
"Nope. Apparently he always believed it to be an ancient rain-dance
ritual. Now he's found out it's actually a sport, he's interested.
So Lyn and I agreed to get a couple of teams together and put on a
match."
"Because you didn't want to piss him off any further, am I right?"
"There was that element to it, yes. Also he said that the winner
would be forgiven for the orange in the goolies incident."
"Shouldn't that be googlies?"
I gave her a look, but she paid no attention. "No. And the loser
would have to clean all the kendo club's equipment with his tongue."
"So all you have to do now to avoid dreadful retribution is take ten
people from this school, teach them how to play a game they've never
even heard of before in a fortnight, and beat someone who's very
definitely better at the game than you are."
"Yes..." I paused in the action of hammering tent pegs into the
ground. "This is sounding less and less attractive by the second,
isn't it?" She nodded again. "Oh bugger," said I, and sank to the
ground.
Tuzi offered me cigarette, which in my depressed state I didn't even
bother to inspect in case it was one of those trippy ones she kept.
Her ever-present grin wasn't making me feel any better either.
We headed home.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The leaden weight of doom was still perched firmly between my
shoulders as we crossed the threshold. My Father was reading the
paper and smoking a pre-dinner cigar. After reading the headline
McCARTHY CHANGES BRITISH NATIONAL LANGUAGE TO JAPANESE I tapped him on
the knee and gained an audience, too depressed to even attempt to
steal any of his cigars from his briefcase as was my usual wont. So
Tuzi took a double share.
"Son," he said after I had poured forth my troubles, and after Mother
had cleared them up. "There is but one thing to be done. Never let
it be said that I stood idly by whilst my son went to the very depths
of the pit of school discipline. I shall speak to the father of this
boy Lyn."
My heart leapt with the exultation of release and I put on my
"overjoyed innocent" look. "Oh Father, thank you." Behind me Tuzi
made gagging noises, which I ignored. There was a time and a place
for this sort of nauseating simpering, and this was most definitely
it.
Father vacated his chair, leaving behind a depression in the cushion
from which an exact replica of his buttocks could have been cast, and
strode across the room to the telephone. Lifting the handset he
turned to me once more. "What is the boy Lyn's surname?"
I scratched my head. "Now there you have me, oh worshipful parent," I
admitted. "He didn't seem to want anyone to know."
"You might phone the school, they're sure to have it on record
somewhere," said Tuzi. "You'll need to talk to Mr Kenshiro anyway."
"Such is the truth, daughter," replied Father, and began dialing.
"Leave it with me and go and get washed for dinner."
"Something bothers me about all this," said Tuzi, as we splashed about
in the bathroom.
"What, is this to be an accusation of craven cowardice?" I replied,
drying my face on a towel. "I can live with that. If it means I can
avoid having to lick dried blood off of an even gross of unvarnished
wooden swords I can live with most things."
She shook her head. "No, not that. I was just wondering whether or
not Father actually remembers our names."
I scowled. "Well, not wishing to be rude, but why should he remember
yours?"
"I'm your sister for the foreseeable future," she grinned. "Learn to
live with it. It'll be okay. I look after you, don't I?"
"Not noticeably, no. Where did you disappear to when Old Seven-Scars
made his entrance at lunchtime?"
"I went to find this out." She passed me a scrap of paper which had
one word written on it. I took it, read it and stared at her.
"Is this...?" She nodded, and my face broke into a grin wider than
her usual smirk. "Oh happy, happy day! YES!" I punched the air and
jumped about the room in what I knew to be a foolish manner, but I
didn't care.
Father was just finishing his second call when we re-entered the
downstairs portion of the house, and he turned to me with a happy
expression on his face. "I have talked to the parties in question,"
quoth he. "And we have come to an agreement."
"And...?" I asked.
"Mr Kenshiro, while a fine teacher," I rolled my eyes at this. Father
stopped them from rolling under the sofa with his foot and passed them
back to me. "Stop that," he continued sternly. "Mr Kenshiro, while a
fine teacher, has little experience in the noble art of the willow."
Hope welled. "So he's decided to forget about it?"
"Certainly not. Jean-Phillip and I have agreed to umpire the match
for him. It will take place two Sundays hence. Glad you brought my
attention to it, it would be a sorry pass indeed if a cricket match
took place without proper supervision."
Hope welled further and splashed over the carpet, whence it soaked in
and vanished, never to be seen again. My face, which had fallen so
far that I was forced to hold it onto my skull with both hands, said:
"That wasn't... _quite_ what I had in mind..."
"I know you won't let me down, my lad. Besides, the whole kith and
caboodle should be very character building. Do you good." He rubbed
his hands together. "Now, how about some nosebag?"
He vanished into the dining room and I took to moaning and gnashing
and banging my head against the wall. "Mayhap death is the only
escape," I sobbed, as Tuzi patted me on the opposite shoulder. "They
say nightshade is quick and painless."
"There there," said Tuzi. "They also say that eating lots of nutmeg
makes you hallucinate."
"Or I could flee. How does Okinawa sound to you? Or maybe
Antarctica."
"You want to keep clear of Antarctica, believe me. At least until
2001. Everything'll work out, you'll see."
"I won't see anything if I keep rolling my eyes under the sofa." I
lifted my head from my hands. "Hang on, 'Jean-Phillip'? Who the
hell's he?"
"Lyn's father, I presume."
"Isn't that a bit of a... _French_ name? What do the French know
about cricket?"
"If Lyn's half-French, then more than you. And knock off the Hundred
Years War crap right now or I'll tell everyone that you still suck
your thumb."
I bewailed my lot. "Nothing could possibly make this day any worse."
"Chop-chop you two," said Mother, popping her head round the door for
a moment. "The sprouts'll get cold."
"Let me rephrase that last comment of mine," said I.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I couldn't sleep that night. It wasn't so much the thought of my
imminent disgrace, more the extra nutmeg that Mother had baked into
the egg custard we had for afters. After an hour or so the
hallucinations died down, and I was left staring into the darkness
above my bed.
I got up to relieve my straining bladder. I threw up the sash and
micturated onto the roses below. It was a warm night, the whole
village was asleep and only the distant sounds of the regular midnight
argument between Yoko Mano and old Mr Hopkins the village witchfinder
marred the tranquillity. Something to do with "muscling in on her
turf" I think. Something else too, sounded like a radio. A car? No,
it was coming from the room next door.
"...you - be - certain?" said a rather flat and toneless voice. Then
a girls chuckle. That was Tuzi, surely?
The sash suddenly slid down with a loud THUMP, and only by a swift
backwards leap did I narrowly avoid the ultimate sacrifice. I sat
against the inner wall, heart thumping, mouth and trousers wide open.
There was nothing but silence from Tuzi's room now, but I was not to
be fooled. That _had_ been Tuzi, and I was going to have this out
with her _right now_. Because let's face it, for four and a half
episodes now there'd been nothing but vague hints interspersed with
bad characterisation and meaningless drivel.
I didn't care if her light was off, nor would her pretending to be
asleep deter me. As it happens, it wasn't and she didn't even try.
She was sitting cross-legged in her pyjamas on the floor in front of a
radio when I barged in. Didn't look in the slightest bit surprised to
see me either.
She held up a hand as I opened my mouth to speak. Probably some trite
clich� such as "Aha! Caught in the act!" was on my lips, but for the
moment such details escape me.
"All right," she said. "The truth." I raised an eyebrow at this, and
she added "Well, some of it anyway." That was more like I had
expected.
I perched on the edge of the bed. A bed that had not been slept in I
noted. "So, what's it to be then?" I asked. "Are you the scout for a
vast alien invasion fleet or what?"
"Don't be silly," she grinned in the manner of Tom Baker. "I'm on
your side, you don't have to worry about that."
"But you were talking to them."
"I was listening. I want to find out what they're up to. We're
getting near the end of this story arc, and I need to be ready."
"You know I can't understand it when you start talking like that," I
said grumpily. "What are you talking about? 'Story arc' indeed."
"Think back. Remember all that stuff about Maeda signalling to aliens
using the rosy red behinds of the children he had caned?" I looked
back at episode one and agreed I did. "That's why I tore his arm off
and had Phantom Quest Corp. ransack his house."
"Hang on," I interrupted. "I thought he chopped his arm off with a
blackboard ruler. At least that's what everybody else remembered."
"Everybody else, yes."
"So," I sneered. "Is this where you start on about there being an
infinite number of realities co-existing at once, or some such guff?"
She waggled a finger. "I told you not to be silly. Of course not, I
made everyone else think that he'd done it with the ruler, imagine the
fuss over the truth. But it doesn't seem to affect you. Maybe it's
because you're the main character."
"You're talking funny again."
"You're right, I am. Can't help it I'm afraid." She stretched her
legs out in front of her and examined her toes. "Also, remember the
big green guys in the Professor's house? They're the aliens.
Honestly, you'd've thought you could've come up with something more
original for me to deal with."
I clutched my head. "This makes no sense."
She grinned again. "It probably won't at the moment. I said I
couldn't tell you everything right now, so be happy with this: All
your suspicions are correct and I'm here to fix them."
"And the invasion fleet?"
"Is vast, yes."
"Enough with the Ford Prefect impersonations. What about all the
demon incursions?"
"Nothing to do with me or the aliens. This is Tokyo after all."
"So why's the professor helping them?"
"He's a mad scientist, he doesn't need a reason."
"Fair point. So, when do the bad guys arrive?"
"Two Sundays hence."
"Two Sundays hence..." I pondered. "You know, that date rings a bell
for some reason... Oh SHIT!"
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WHAT THE HELL DID *THAT* MEAN?
Lyn *COUGH* is from the fanfic EVA:R by Maher Al-Samkari and Orbit
Productions. Find this shining example of how fanfics _should_ be
written (as opposed to this one) at http://www.eva-r.com. I thank
Maher for letting me use Lyn after I couldn't find an anime character
who stood a chance of knowing the rules of cricket, and reiterate my
promise to him that those pictures for episode 58' _will_ materialise
soon... ;)
The lyrics are from "Girl from Mars" by Ash. A truly great band,
although let's face it, their first album was better than their
second.
I'll admit it, this episode is mostly setting things up for the finale
of this particular bit of the story. And to be perfectly honest I was
thinking of packing this version in and concentrating on the manga
version (which will appear sometime next year at MinamiCon) hence the
rather long delay. But I had another idea, so there _will_ be a
volume two, which means I have to finish this one first. Not that the
ending of this bit won't have a lot of time devoted to it. *COUGH*
;)
I won't give you the usual assurances that I don't care what people
say about this fic, which has received mixed reactions to say the
least, because I'd be lying. Obviously any writer wants to be liked,
they wouldn't make their works public if they didn't. I must presume
that of the five billion human beings on this planet there must be
_someone_ who likes this stuff, and I really appreciate it when they
make themselves known to me. So carry on doing it, okay? At least
there hasn't been an anime fanfic about a cricket match before (IIRC,
of course ;)
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Subi [23/10/00]
subi@gameart.com
http://www.gameart.com/4ca
[end]