fandomhigh | Classrooms Around Campus, All Day Saturday

Classrooms Around Campus, All Day Saturday

It was Saturday, and that meant Career Day! Unbeknownst to all the students who had taken the career placement test, Fandom had apparently conspired to place them all in workshops that didn't quite fit the answers they gave for their tests. The island was tricky that way. Not to mention that the workshops that the island had planned were somewhat different from the workshops an ordinary school might offer on Career Day. As in quite a lot different.

So the classrooms all around the school were filled with visitors from off-island and island alike, all of whom had been led to believe that they would be teaching eager-minded groups of students, excited to learn about their prospective careers. This assumption was not necessarily accurate.

[[up early early early for timezones! ~~wait for the OCD or puppies will die.~~ the puppies are safe now.]]

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Warren had no idea how he'd ended up in this workshop. He was the son of a millionaire, for goodness sake! But he listened attentively nevertheless. At least he was more or less already equipped to deal with that fast, manoeuvrability thing.

But there was one statement that Warren just couldn't shake, entirely.

"... Apocalyptic event?"

Okay. Maybe playing courier wasn't for him, either.

"If you haven't had one, don't gloat," Rude told him. "Gloating is rude."

Warren's eyes went wide at that, and he held his hands up in front of himself in protest.

"Oh, no! No, I wouldn't dream of gloating! I just..." Warren's mouth opened and closed a few times, but his brain seemed to be utterly failing to provide him with a decent excuse for his curiosity. "I'm sorry. I just needed to get my head around the idea of capitalizing on disaster. But then, it hasn't really been entirely unheard of where I'm from, either."

His dad, after all, was rich because he was selling drugs to sick people.

There was the tiniest hint of a smirk on Rude's face. He'd just been messing with the kid, after all.

"The world doesn't end just because the world's ended," he replied, all philosophically. "Someone's still got to... clean up the mess."

Aww, Rude. Smirking over messing with Warren was like bragging about the lollipop that you'd snagged from inside a stroller.

"The delivery guys?"

Forgive him, Rude. Warren clearly had never seen the folks at Strife Delivery in action, before.

The folks at Strife Delivery didn't LIKE action, after all. They liked sitting around and being whiny and moping about a dead girl, and only acted when they absolutely had to.

"You'd be surprised."

Wesley turned to Warren mid-way through the lecture with a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

"Why... are we in this workshop?" he asked quietly. "And -- oh! You're normal again."

Yes, Wes, very observant.

Wesley's first hint had been the pants, right? The pants were practically a dead giveaway!

"I have no idea," Warren confessed, blinking away from the mountain of a man who was giving the presentation. "But then, it could be way worse, right?"

The one for the Guild of Calamitous Intent hadn't been all that bad, actually. He'd had dealings with the Guild before, and more or less knew what to expect from them. But there was that mercenary guy...

"It could," Wesley admitted. "I was told there's an unemployment workshop. I'm quite glad not to be in that one."

The day wasn't over, Wes.
"And," he said, his eyes glinting wickedly, "I suppose you're fortunate not to be in a, ah, teen magazine photographer workshop, or some such thing."

He thought he was funny.

Hilarious! Which was why Warren was worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, looking almost longingly at the doorway.

"I would probably do way less swooning than you might think," he offered, lamely.

"All right, all right," Wes said, taking that as his cue to desist. "Well, regardless, there seems to be something odd about these workshops. I was rather expecting a different sort of assignment."

"I don't think there even is any sort of entrepreneurial workshop," Warren agreed, still a little wide-eyed. "I wouldn't have minded something about... accounting, or sales, at least."

He'd seen an entry for a lawyer on the schedule, but he suspected that one wasn't really to be trusted, either.

"I rather hope that's just the island being odd, rather than a sign that we're actually going to have these careers," Wesley said, glancing around the room.

Warren gave Wesley a weird little look, and then laughed and shook his head.

"Bet you anything it was some kind of mass paperwork error," he replied, grinning a little. "Unless you think I'm some kind of contract villain or mercenary, I mean."

Okay, granted, Warren was actually more comfortable around the few members of the Guild of Calamitous Intent that he'd met than he was around most of the good guys that he knew. He still really didn't see himself as some kind of punchcard bad guy.

"Well, you know," Wesley said, waving a hand. "Your girlfriend is a mass poisoner, so it's really only one step to contract villain."

He still thought he was funny. Hush.

"I could someday rule the world with Karla's baking?"

If he had any less integrity, Warren would probably seriously be considering that.

"I guess I could find some way to replace the world's food supply with her cookies, and then I'd have the entire population of Earth at my mercy..."

Wesley smirked. This was almost as much fun to speculate about as the zebras-and-crocodiles story. Karla-spurned apocalypses. Fun!

"I suppose the only hurdle would be getting the world to accept the cookies as the food supply," he mused. "They're sometimes... discolored, I suppose? They don't look much like cookies."

"I guess that would have to be where I commission some sort of matter-replacer device," Warren decided, biting the inside of his cheek in order to keep from laughing out. "It would probably require a whole bunch of double-As, but in the end, victory would be mine."

Wesley grinned. "Bugger," he said, mock-disappointed. "And I suppose a team of vigilantes would have to go up against you, only to tragically accept defeat in the face of your mountains and mountains of poisoned cookies."

See, Karla? Bad baking killed.

The Avengers wouldn't stand a chance!

"I wonder if I could actually turn the mountains into cookies..."

There was an idea. Hm...

Hmm indeed...

"Possibly," he said. "With your, ah, double-A battery matter device. Although that might require extra power. D batteries, maybe."

"I could probably tape some tinfoil to the top and call it a solar battery," Warren decided. "Perfect until I decide that the sun needs to be made into cookies, too."

"Oh, fine point," Wesley said, then tilted his head in consideration. "But then how could you bake more cookies without a heat source?"

Oh, Wesley posed important questions, here.

"Volcanoes," Warren decided, very solemnly, indeed. "Geothermal poison cookies."

"Ah."

A beat.

"And will Karla continue to bake for you if she knows your nefarious purposes?"

Classrooms Around Campus, All Day Saturday

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