fandomhigh | Home Ec, Tuesday, Period 1

Someone had decorated the classroom. Possibly several someones.

Who were color blind.

"Yeah, I don't know," Eliot told the students when they arrived. "Just . . . try to make the best of it." He was sort of desperately wishing he had a belt sander handy to strip the orange off things, at least, but they had other things to do right now. And he wasn't teaching Shop this semester.

"Right. So today we're going to touch on the 'economics' side of class. I got the syllabus for this sucker straight from the school board and they, uh. Well. Let's just say I'm pretty sure this thing hasn't been updated since the '80s." He pulled a very distinctively shaped box out of the teacher's desk, popped it open, and started passing around checkbooks. "I'm guessin' most -- if not all -- of you guys have never actually seen one of these before. These are called checks. They were used as sort of formalized financial markers throughout the US and a lot of the rest of the Earth in the 20th century. They've been made almost completely obsolete thanks to smartphones, credit cards, and the internet, but -- sure. Let's all learn how to write checks."

He was rolling his eyes so hard, you guys. This was absurd.

Once everyone had their checkbooks, he went to the whiteboard and drew a rough diagram of the check on the board, numbering each blank and explaining what went in each one. "These suckers are really easy to counterfeit or use in fraud, by the way," he warned them. "If you put 'cash' in the 'who is this for' spot, anyone can use it to get paper money or coins out of your bank account. If you write a check and your account doesn't have enough funds in it to cover the expense, it'll 'bounce', meanin' the person you're payin' doesn't get their money and gets pissed, and the bank gets pissed, and when people get pissed about money it usually means at the very least they're gonna charge you a lot more for it."

At the most? Well. Eliot had maybe been sent out to 'retrieve' in retaliation for a bounced check or two in his time. It wasn't pretty.

"So the basic idea for this class is: You each get the same amount of imaginary money in your imaginary bank account, about 10 thousand -- they ain't dollars, but whatever -- which you'll spend using your super unofficial checks. Then when we're doin' lessons throughout the rest of the semester, you're gonna 'pay' for your supplies using that imaginary money. I dunno, if you want to use, like, organic flour when we're makin' bread, that'll cost more -- whatever the hell you wanna call 'em, points, simoleons, Fandom-bucks, whatever -- than just the regular old all-purpose flour. Maybe you really wanna use the fancy flour, but then next week we're gonna do sewing and you want to get the fancy fabric, too. You're gonna have to keep an eye on your own 'account' and decide what you'd rather spend more money on. Ya follow?"

This was far too complicated for a Fandom class. Seriously.

"If you run out of money b'fore the end of the semester I'm probably supposed to start teachin' you about credit or something and you can learn an important lesson about how to apply for a loan and slowly ruin your life, but -- fuck it. Just -- I ain't gonna track whether or not your checks are bouncin' or not." He was not going to track whether or not they actually used their checks or not, let's be real. "Bullshit a breakdown of what you spent where at the end of the semester and if it even kinda makes sense I'll give you a pass on the economics side of things."

This is what happened when budgeting was being taught by a professional thief.

"For today, practice writin' and endorsin' checks. Go nuts and pay your friends a billion fan-bucks each. Write somethin' dirty on the 'For' line. Practice signing your roommate's name. Y'all're probably either gonna pay for things with PayPal or gold bullion around here, anyway. If your world uses somethin' real interesting for currency, like -- actual shells or something, or -- hey -- if you use an actual barter system, come on over and tell me about it. Money in my world's basically a giant con, so it'll be nice to hear about something that might actually work."

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"My, you are a daughter of Skaldia, aren't you?" Hyacinthe laughed. "But you are right. He cut his palm and let the blood flow, rich and red and fragrant. And where it hit the earth, scarlet anemones bloomed. 'My grandfather's Heaven is bloodless and I am not,' Elua told the arch-herald. ' Let him offer a better place, where we may love and sing and grow as we are wont, where our children and our children’s children may join us, and I will go.' And the One God, speaking through the arch-herald replied, 'There is no such place.' For many long moments, there was only silence between Heaven and Terre D'Ange, broken only by the sound of Elua's blood pouring to the earth."

Hyacinthe had never been to church proper, but he doubted even a priest of Elua could tell the story better. "And then, just as those gathered thought that it would come to a battle between the hosts of Heaven and Elua and his Companions, Mother Earth spoke to her once-husband for the first time in thousands upon thousands of years. 'We can create one, You and I,' she said, and her voice was the shaking of the rocks and the sound of plants bursting up through rich soil, and even the water lapping upon the shores."

"Thus was the creation of the true Terre d’Ange that lies beyond mortal perception, and blessed Elua and his Companions went willingly into it, passing not through the dark gate of death, but straightway through the bright gate. And alone among them, only Cassiel gazed backward in sorrow. Generation upon generation, the blood of Elua and his Companions runs still in the veins of their descendants, each of whom will one day follow to the land that lies beyond. And though centuries pass, they do not forget, but call their land still after that further one, and keep always sacred the precept of blessed Elua, that is, Love as thou wilt."

Hyacinthe drew his story to a close, offering Hanna a smile. "Such is Terre d’Ange."

Hanna gave him soft applause, and a large smile. "You are a very good storyteller. You should do that always." She folded her hands, thinking on what he'd explained, both about the Tsingani, and the Long Road, and how that might work into the story of Terre d'Ange. "It's lovely... although I feel sad for Cassiel, always looking back. Couldn't he visit that other heaven, sometimes?" Then again, it wasn't like she could go back to her past, either. "I wish I could tell a story as well as you do. I shall have to practice in the future, I suppose. But you're already wonderfully -- poetic."

"My thanks," he said, giving her a bright and merry grin. "I've made my bread by telling stories before, though, I must admit, I am of average skill only. This story benefited from being familiar. Now, do you like stories, you should hear a Mendicant weave a tale, with voices and sound effects and plot twists to make your heart pound and your eyes tear. Still enough, I am glad you enjoyed the story, jolie."

"I did," Hanna said, ducking her head, then forcing herself to make eye contact. "We only had two books when I was growing up. An encyclopedia, and a book of fairy tales. I loved the fairy tales more. Although Papa did make the encyclopedia as interesting as he could."

"We had none," Hyacinthe said with an understanding nod. "I was just lucky enough to live on Rue Coupole, in Night's Doorstep. Home of poets, storytellers, I ran errands for poets, listened to storytellers in taverns, laughed at noble sons telling lies to impress ladies, watched actors run lines and rewrite scripts. "Being surrounded by stories influenced my love of them as surely as your lack, I think.

"I would have loved that. Or music? Did they have music there in the City of Elua too?" They must have, if they valued all things beautiful. "Do you have fairy tales? Tales that aren't true, but everyone knows them?"

"We have music and fiction and art and everything!" Hyacinthe assured her. "I would put a simple D'Angeline shepherd on pipes up against the court musicians of any land and put all my money on the shepherd every time."

Home Ec, Tuesday, Period 1

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