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located in Seattle Public High School, a part of How to Make Them Love, one of the many universes on RPG.

Seattle Public High School

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That morning saw Winifred et Violaine awakening in high spirits.

It was not because today marked the first day of her last year of high school-- not entirely anyway. It was only partially, perhaps, because the summer vacation she'd spent largely by her lonesome was at last over. It was not even her usual enthusiasm for the renewed days of learning and study that lay ahead, though that almost certainly figured into it. It certainly wasn't because, as usual, she'd woken up to a faceful of yellowing, grainy paper. Nope-- it was simply 'cause Fred et Violaine was of that most rare, most alien and unusual breed of humans-- she was a morning person.

Truly, she mused to herself as she set aside the book laid open upon her face-- Musta fallen asleep readin' again-- was there any sensation more wonderful than that of awakening? To awaken to an affirmation of one's own life, of the world, and to have the world to oneself in those precious few moments in which much of the city yet slept and the inevitable hustle and bustle that would pollute the later hours was nowhere to be seen. To enjoy the morning, clinging yet to the chill of night, in those invaluable moments of peace and tranquility. Heck, it was a wonder to Fred why everybody wasn't a mornin' person.

"Whelp, can't be helped, I reck'n," she supposed as she bound on outta bed, a lively spring to her step and not a hint of sleep dragging at her body, stepped out onto a floor absolutely littered with clothes strewn carelessly about. She took the book with her-- Camus' L’Étranger. A classic, to be sure, one which she had read a number of times previously, but that was the thing about a good book, eh? You could come back to it again and again and you'd still take somethin' new away from it. Especially a book like this one-- it was like an onion. "Except it doesn't smell funky," she noted to herself, taking a quick sniff of the book to confirm this hypothesis. Yep-- naught but the ever-pleasant scent of an old book. "Also, it doesn't make ya cry so much as... I dunno, get all introspective. And I guess ya can't grow a book. Or put it in your food. Well, ya could. It'd probably taste kinda weird though. So really, it ain't nothin' like an onion. Why'd I say it was in the first place...? Oh yeah!" she exclaimed as she dove down to the ground, sweeping up a pair of jeans and tugging them onto her legs. "'cause it's got layers. Like an onion."

Yessir, a good book was like a good person. Or a good onion. Had lots'a layers to peel away. And danged if L’Étranger didn't have plenty'a layers to peel away. You had Camus' personal beliefs of the absurdity and meaninglessness of everyday life, the arbitrariness of justice, the dangerous indifference that lay in anomie, the perils of existing purely via sensory experience. Every page was an insight into everyday existence. Every sentence a reflection on the inherent absurdity of being. Right from the very first sentence, the meaninglessness of it all set the tone for the rest of the experience. Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas. J'ai reçu un télégramme de l'asile: Mère décédée. Enterrement demain. Sentiments distingués. Cela ne veut rien dire. C'était peut-être hier. "Mama died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the home: Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours. That doesn't mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday..."

Sometimes the passage of time felt that way to Fred. 'That doesn't mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.' She lost track of the days that had passed and those that hadn't. Yesterday could have happened years ago; it may not have happened at all. It was sometimes difficult to discern recollection from reality. All too often, the former turned out to be altogether divorced from the latter.

But not today. Today she knew exactly who she was, where she was, when she was. Today, Fred et Violaine was still here. Today, she was gonna go and see her friends again. Not that she had a whole lot of 'em. But what few she did have, she treasured. They kept her grounded. Kept her head on her shoulders. Kept her from bein' all miserable and alone. Mostly. Sometimes she managed to find herself bein' all miserable and alone anyway. But she was workin' on that. Y'know what they said. Tigers can't change their stripes. Unless they got all their fur shaved off. Or had their genetics tampered with. Then that'd kinda change their stripes. Then again, by that logic, the solution to Fred's... er, social anxieties was either shaving her entire body clean or genetically altering her body hair. She frowned. "When ya put it like that," she observed solemnly, pulling on some random band tee she'd picked up off the floor. "I don't think it'd work."

From there, it was doin' some three or four different things simultaneously-- shovin' her daily schoolin' materiels into her backpack, tuggin' sneakers onto her feet (and then tuggin' one off again once she realised she was only wearin' one sock), redoing the lazy ponytail her hair had been tied back into the day before (the end result looked just as if not messier than it had before), brushin' her teeth (it was that time'a the month again, the one time where she actually remembered), hummin' along to some Infester (Braded Into Palsy had been stuck in her head since she'd woken up, it seemed), and, of course, ardently discussing the content of L’Étranger with herself.

"I, for one," she announced grandiosely as she hopped around on one foot tryin' to tie her shoe. "I think Meursault represents not an epitome of human realisation with regards to the absurdity of everyday life, but exactly what not to do with such understanding. This phenomenon of 'anomie' we observe in Meursault represents the ultimate desSHIIIIIIIIIIIIII--" Her undoubtedly Shatnerian revelations concerning the text came to an unceremonious end as Fred lost her balance and hit the floor like a sack'a potatoes, managing to slam her head on at least four different, painfully tangible surfaces on the way down. "You mind?" she demanded of absolutely nobody. "I'm kinda busy bein' all philosophical 'n whatnot here."

No answer came. Which suited Fred just fine. She made a show of dustin' herself off as though she'd just sailed headfirst into a pile of dirt or somethin', and then went right on.

"Now, as I was sayin'..."






Beyond the threshold of her apartment, however, was a different world. An unfamiliar one. One in which it would not do for Fred to be quite as... loose with herself as she was in the comfortable confines of her own home. She encountered few others in her walk to school-- or maybe she had. She could not have been trusted to notice, as she spent most nearly the whole journey with her nose buried in her book, walkin' practically on rote memorisation. Proceed forward one hundred twenty eight metres, eastward fork, two hundred seven metres to the southward fork, hang a left, etc, etc. Same thing as every day. Pretty standard. Routine. Comfortingly routine.

It was the same thing at school, too. Keep to the routine. "Stick to the sides, don't stick out like a sore thumb, don't talk to yourself," she reminded herself under her breath. "Stick to the sides, don't stick out like a sore thumb, don't talk to yourself. Stick to the sides, don't stick out like a sore thumb, don't talk to yourse....wait. Shit."

She was still in the midst of beating herself up for this mistake (out loud and to herself) when she caught sight'a Sungjae, not far away, walkin' along with someone Fred presumed to be ol' Arrow James. Now Sungjae-- that there was a dude who had 'don't stick out like a sore thumb' down pat-- still, maybe Fred had some sorta 'weird people radar' that helped her locate her friends. Not that they were weird. Well-- okay, mostly they were. Weird. By the standards of the rest of the school, anyway. And heck, wasn't weird a good thing? Most of the time. Usually. More often than not. Sometimes. ....every now and then?

Lowering the book, Fred quickened her pace and approached Jae. She'd been fully intent on sneakin' up behind him and whatnot, except that, predictably, she tripped over some stray oxygen particles and most nearly headbutted Jae in the back of the cranium. She regained her composure quick enough to avoid makin' a big scene, but when she caught up to Sungjae's side, there was just a hint'a flustered crimson to her olive cheeks. "Right. Sorry 'bout that, Jae. Didn't mean t'nearly nail ya in the head there. Also--" She did a quick, one-handed salute at Arrow. "--howzit hangin' 'Row?"