Chapter Text
With the plan laid out, Frida and Cleo take down their barricade and slowly exit the science lab. Using the compact mirror, they check that the coast is clear before riding out on Frida’s skateboard.
The girls roll down the empty hallways, shocked and unnerved by the silence. The stillness has a dark feel, knowing the place is still filled with students. Frida had been in the place after hours, and even then it didn’t feel this empty.
On the bright side, it makes for a quick ride over to the locker bay, where the duo collect their possessions. Cleo grabs her school-only jewelry case. Special ordered and specially designed to catch the attention of new teens who have had their attention spans whittled down to nothing by social media. Though she had to admit that the fidget spinner rings did help her focus in class.
As for Frida…
“Will you hurry up already!” Cleo whisper-shouts at the smaller clone, on her knees and digging through her overstuffed mess of a locker. “We’re sitting ducks here!”
“Just give me a sec!” Frida whisper-shouts back, taking things at seemingly random and shoving them into her backpack. “You never know what’ll come in handy with stuff like this…”
Cleo watcher Frida collect spray paint bottles and a few brushes. But she just keeps going, throwing in her spare clothes, her easel, the stuffed platypus, the unibrow wax, the hot sauce bottles… before getting back to the half-empty paint tubes and more dirty brushes.
“If you actually use all that crap, I’ll lick your dirty bristles clean for the rest of the year.”
Frida can feel her face burn red as she grabs her painter’s palette, the wood splintering in her vice-like grip. Her brain painting a very vivid, explicit picture that were slowly turning her into quivering Jell-O.
“Aaaaaahahaha,” she laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck as she desperately avoids eye contact. “Geez, Cle. I mean, like, we should prolly g-get ta know each other better first and, aah…”
Frida’s teetering train of thought derails completely with the sound of a cocking shotgun. Both clones freeze, eyes slowly meeting as they wait for the worst.
“Put those hands where I can see them,” a familiar voice bleats. Cleo’s hands shoot up into the air, while Frida only raises one, slowly.
“That’s good, but I still need to see the other one from you, missy.”
“I’ll get to it,” Frida says, giving Cleo a steely, serious look before turning her head, and staring into the weakly determined, weird eyes of Mr. Sheepman. The homeroom teacher glowers, holding the gun awkwardly, his wool dyed black. “I just can’t believe you’re a part of this. I thought you were better than playing his game, Sheepy.”
“I was,” he says, clearly struggling with the weapon. “But Scudworth promised an extra vacation day for every faculty member that joined in. Now raise your hand, Frida. These guns weren’t made for half-sheep hands so you can imagine how uncomfortable this is.”
“Actually,” Frida says bitterly, hand still on the palette. “How ‘bout I do this!” In one swift motion, she whips her arm, the flat piece of wood flying like a shuriken and knocking the gun out of Sheepman’s hands.
The old teacher stares at the weapon on the ground, shocked. His attention returns to the girls, only to see an angry Cleo in front of him, Frida’s evidence shovel raised over her head.
“Oh dear,” the teacher says weakly, moments before the shovel comes down on his head.
The girls stand over the teacher, out cold. Almost feeling too sorry for the poor bastard to go through with their plan.
Key word being ‘almost.’
Cleo grabs the discarded shotgun, pointing the bright orange tip at Sheepman.
“Stop!”
Cleo stops, looking over at Frida.
“What? I think I earned a few potshots.”
“Nah, nah, we can’t make guns part of this,” Frida says, trying to take the gun from Cleo, though she was in no hurry to give it up.
“Why not?” she asks, annoyed but curious.
“Because then you’re the good guy with the gun, and that proves guns are the answer.”
Cleo just stares, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
“But… the guns started this.”
“Right,” Frida answers bluntly.
“And people say more guns are the answer?”
“Mhm, they do,” Frida says, seeing the gears turning in Cleo’s head. “Shooters that shoot the other shooters? They eat that shit up.”
“Wait, hold on! If guns are the problem, then in what world do more guns-“
Frida raises her hands to stop Cleo in her tracks. “Pats, I ain’t gonna fight you on this! I’m on your side here!” Frida sighs, seeing Cleo’s face light up to be agreed with. “It’s just a whole thing, you feel?”
Disappointment creeps back in as Cleo pouts, throwing the gun down and crossing her arms.
“So what do we do then?”
Frida reaches into her pocket, pulling out a pair of scalpels taken from the science lab. Cleo takes one, the pair looking at their instruments before turning back to Sheepman.
Then they get to work.
Principal Scudworth happily makes his way down the hall, skipping past the classrooms filled with terrified students and skipping over the over the victims, stepping on a hand or a spine every now and then. Gayly swinging his semi-automatic around like a blushing bride. Without a doubt, today was a resounding success. He could already imagine the grateful looks on the children’s faces as the school rolled out tighter, stricter, horrifically Draconian security measures to keep all of them in line-he means safe. Right, safe.
But the day was getting quite boring. His trigger finger was feeling itchy, and he was feeling increasingly musical. And with a moment to find the rhythm in his head, he dances his way towards the door at the end of the hall.
“Aa-aLL the SHINE of a thouSAnd SPOtlights, ALL ThE stars we stEAL from tHe NIGht sky,” he sings loudly, defeating his sneaking tactic as he nears the door.
He wraps his gloved fingers around the door handle, turning them slowly.
“will neva beee enoooouugh…”
He leans in, listening for the soft click of the bolt pulling away from the latch.
click
He then kicks the door open, squeezing his eyes shut and shooting a barrage of beanbag rounds up into the stucco ceiling.
“NEVA BEEE ENOOOOOOUUUUUUUGHHHHH!!!!!”
Scudworth feels a fine powder coat his head and shoulders, waiting for the delicious screams of appreciative children.
But there is no screaming. Scudworth opens his eyes, wondering if he picked an empty classroom. No, there are clones in the classroom, but they all ignore him. Too busy staring at their phones and laughing. The principal can only frown as he heads over for a closer look.
“What is the meaning of this!?” he shouts, finally making the students scream and making him roll his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, aaaaaaah. The mood totally isn’t ruined or anything. Now give me that!”
He rips the phone out of a student’s hand, only for the students to huddle around him and watch with him. To Scudworth’s lack of surprise, they were on Flipflop. But the video they were watching does catch his attention.
It was Sheepman. Sheered. The old teacher was shaking like a leaf while tied to a chair, sporting a black eye and a bloody nose. His wool repurposed into a bib, bonnet, and diaper. His school-issued shotgun smashed to pieces at his feet, with only the butt of the gun stuck in his mouth like a pacifier.
The caption on the video read Succ awn dis, gun Nutz, and the video was posted on a very familiar and very popular account: Frida Kahlo’s.
And the students continue to laugh, no longer intimidated by Scudworth’s authority or his massive arsenal.
“Hmmmmm,” he says as he rubs his chin. “This could be… a problem.”
The blanket of fear slowly lifts off the student body of Clone High. While many are content to laugh at Frida’s Flipflop, leaving comments and trying to out-meme each other, a few gain the courage to venture out of the classrooms they had barricaded themselves in. Repopulating the empty hallways. Talking to each other and trying to feel normal.
It isn’t long before they’re screaming and jumping for safety, but not because of guns this time. Because of Genghis Kahn. He runs down the hall, his massive footsteps shaking the ground as he smiles and laughs. All eyes are on him as he goes, then stops, then bends over to pick something up.
“Bingo!” he shouts, staring at something shiny before putting it in his pocket. He keeps going, a few students following behind the giant to see what he’s looking at. He stops again, picking up something else.
“Bluey!” he shouts happily, getting the students to get in closer. And yes, it was a jewel-studded earring shaped like the cute Australian dog. “Oooh, look!” Genghis points, and all eyes follow toward more shiny things on the ground.
A trail of jewelry. Leading to where, no one could be sure, but Genghis was ready to follow it. He stomps his way down the hall, a few curious students trailing behind him. His laughter attracting more to leave their hiding spots. The school coming back to life.
Though the warm feeling came to a shocking halt as Genghis and the crowd reach the gymnasium and hear muffled screaming. The group grinds to a halt, with all but Genghis running inside to see who was making that noise.
The small hoard rushes in, taking in the carnage as they head for the shouting. Past the trashed basketball court, dodgeballs scattered everywhere. The scoreboard reading 2-0. Through the showers, towels scattered everywhere and hot water filling the room with steam. And finally, into the weight room, where the clones see the source.
There, running on one of the treadmills, was Coach Eleanor. Arms tied to the machine with towels. Trying to scream through the red rubber dodgeball shoved into her mouth, massive white teeth failing to bite through it. Running, screaming, and sweating as her warden stands behind her, gun at the ready.
And who should it be but the clone of the great explorer. Topher Bus, standing tall in a fitted leather jacket and shades, smiling with smug confidence.
“Yes, fellow students,” he says, weapon in hand. “Frida Kahlo, a queer, proud woman of color, and our student body president, has put her trust in me with the important duty. A wonderful day for allies everywhere! But this is just first step, dear friends! For soon, we will be back on equal footing, and then, we will finally be heard! We will have our voice at the table! We will no longer be looked down on for our backgrounds or our taste in acoustic rock music! Yes, soon, our music will be the sound dominating the radio stations! WE will be the ones singing the show tunes! In fact, I believe some are in order right now!” Topher clears his throat and beings his singing in a deep, rousing tone. “Do you hear the people sing, singing the song of angry men…”
At least, that was what Topher imagined was happening in his head. In reality, the students were watching him wobble in place, horrifically concussed by the multiple beanbag shots he had taken earlier. His head looking like an overripe grape, the boy mumbling to himself in a leather jacket twice his size, holding the gun backwards. He somehow squeezes off a shot, a beanbag round hitting him in the face and sending him flying and scaring the tough-as-nails coach, making her run even faster. The whole sight was a farce that the students couldn’t help but laugh at and share on social media.
When the laughter ends, one of the students notices something past the treadmill. A cardboard box looking ready to burst. They walk over to is, finding it full of art supplies. Paint tubes, spray paint, brushes of all shapes and sizes, and a single note on top of everything.
It reads: Let them know how you really feel!
Signed by Cleopatra and Frida Kahlo.
This isn’t how things are supposed to go. That was one thought running through Candide’s mind over and over as she runs from a mob of angry students.
Things had started unassuming enough. A mob of angry students was moving on her. Not a surprise, since being shot at can make you a bit pissy. So, she fired off a shot, hitting Theodore Roosevelt in the chest. The boy fell, and Candide stood there, waiting for the clones to come to their senses and scatter.
But that never happened. Instead, Candide watched as two students pulled Teddy back onto his feet, the mob continuing to move on her. This was wrong. The fear of death and pain was supposed to cow them and make them submissive. But it wasn’t doing that. The guns were making them angry. And motivated.
And despite her being a full-grown woman and these being puny teenagers, Candide forcefully swallowed her pride and ran. Away from the angry shouting and into the darkened hallways. Weaving around corners and up and down stairwells to keep them confused.
Like most things in life tended to do, the rebellion was making Candide mad. This was going against the plan! How could she break the clones down and build them back up into the ultimate super-soldiers if they refused to hit rock bottom? In fact, they were building themselves up higher than they were before they even began! But why?
It didn’t matter. Candide had served under the Shadowy Board long enough to know all the ways to squash a rebellion. It would take time. It would take cunning. And it would take serious cruelty (her favorite kind of cruelty). Here in Clone High’s art gallery she would devise a plan that would not only end the fight, but also finally get her revenge on Frida Kahlo and Cleopatra! They would… rue the…
Wait a moment, Candide thinks. Clone High doesn’t have an art gallery. So, what’s with all the art on the walls?
On closer inspection, Candide realizes that this isn’t just art in the hallway. It’s protest art. The sound of spray paint cans filled the air as she saw a red X going through a handgun. A skull-and-crossbones with AK-47s for the bones. Paper banners spelling ‘no guns’ in all caps above the lockers. Sloppy spray-painting spelling out ‘glocks R 4 cocks’ on the floor. And, for some reason, headshots of that creepy Italian kid with OBEY written under him in large red letters.
It was horrifying! It was years of hard work going down the drain, one brush stroke at a time!
Though Candide did have to admit, some of it was funny. Like a caricature of Scudworth with his pants down, revealing a smooth Ken-doll crotch while shooting two guns in the air. Someone wrote ‘OVERCOMPENSATING’ under the drawing in big red letters. She couldn’t help but laugh at the sight.
Though less funny was the caricature of her next to it, holding an even larger gun than Scudworth. Bent over to give a great view of her enormous ass, looking like two watermelons shoved into a black sock. A target painted on each cheek.
Candide looks down, putting a hand on one of her hip.
“Now that’s just uncalled for…”
The pity party comes to a stop at the sound of clattering. Candide looks down, seeing a spray can rolling towards her, stopping at her foot. She stares at it, then looking up to realize that the hallway is full of students, all of them staring back at her. The silence between them is awkward, broken by an awkward cough.
“GET HER!” Sacagawea shouts, scissors in hand. The students charge, leading Candide to run back into the shadows.
The superintendent curses to herself as she goes, glasses slowly fogging as she pants. She pulls them off wiping the condensation off in frustration. She is going to have Scudworth’s head on her wall by the end of the school year, she thinks.
She puts her glasses back on, the blurry world sharp as her tongue once again. And what should she see but the first mob of students, barreling right at her. Candide screams, turning back around to see the second mob still out for blood.
Candide runs down the convenient third hallway, the two mobs becoming a tidal wave of angry clones ready to rip her head off. All strategy has been thrown out the window. Everything is totally FUBAR. Completely SNAFU. Absolutely SNUGGLEBUG, the military acronym so vulgar its meaning is barred from ever being released to the public under threat of being fed to hungry POWs, feet first.
And everywhere Candide turned, those feelings were reinforced tenfold. Protest chants. Anti-gun graffiti. Other teachers being tied up and gagged, their arsenals destroyed. The power over the clones was diminishing, and Candide saw doom on the horizon. A complete, unconditional defeat.
And she would rather kiss Scudworth while sober than see that day come.
With a second wind, Candide sprints down the hall, turning a corner and getting a moment to breath. Time to take in her surroundings and think. Her mind sharp, she sees something. An air vent with the grate on the ground, likely by one of Scudworth’s wild shots into the ceiling. Moving fast, she hops onto the lockers, then leans up to her escape.
The mob of students rushes through the hallway. So absorbed in their bloodlust, that none bother to look up and see Candide’s massive backside hanging out of the vent.
Candide stews in anger inside the cramped vent, unable to pull herself in anymore.
“This proves nothing,” she mumbles as her watch starts beeping. A video call from Scudworth. She accepts the call and sees two screens pop up. One with the idiot himself, and the other with a disinterested Mr. Butlertron.
“Candide!” Scudworth shouts, the camera way too close to his face. “Oh, Candide! Everything is going wrong! So very, very wrong!!!”
“Scudworth you idiot!” she whispers. “You’re going to get me caught! Now tell me what’s going on! Why are the clones rebelling? We should have them in the palm of our hands!”
“I don’t know!” he whines, lowering his volume. “Everything was going great, but then I saw that Frida Kahlo was sharing videos of Sheepman getting completely emasculated despite all his weapons and… actually it all makes perfect sense how this happened.”
Candide growls to herself, furious about the small brat outsmarting her. But something feels off. Kahlo couldn’t have done this alone. The girl is a walking marshmallow. Humiliation isn’t in her playbook. On the other hand…
“She’s getting help,” Candide says. “It’s her and Cleopatra! They’re working together to bring down the drill!”
Scudworth gasps in shock. “Rabble rousers! And to think I gave them compliments! Still, we have a secret weapon! Mr. B here is tied into all of the defense systems in the school! Why, with just a thought-”
“I believe I made myself clear that I am a conscientious objectooooooooor,” Butlertron says, annoyance clear in his cold, robotic voice.
Scudworth runs a gloved hand down his face and sighing before shooting at something, the sound of breaking glass and screaming students breaking the awkward silence. “Oh, what a surprise! Mr. We Need to Spend More Time Together blows off another one of my bonding ideas! Gee, it must be a day that ends in Y!!!”
“SCUDWORTH!” Candide shouts, breaking up the lovers’ quarrel before it can even start. “There’s only one way we’re beating these brats. And that means breaking one of your rules... So say it.”
“Uuuuugh, fine!” he groans. “Candide, forget the random chaos and fear. I want you to hunt down Frida Kahlo and Cleopatra personally, and make an example of them!”
Candide ends the video call, licking her lips like a hungry serpent.
“With pleasure…”
“Candide?”
The superintendent snaps out of her sociopathic murder fantasy to see Joan of Arc, her foster daughter, on all fours in the vent with her.
“Joan? What are you doing up here?”
“Ummm,” she goes, “I’m hiding from old men with guns with weak knees that can’t jump and…” Joan looks at her new foster mom, the metal digging into her ass. “And mature women with healthy, natural body types?”
“Hmmm, I know you’re lying to my face,” Candide says flatly to a terrified Joan. “But I do still appreciate you saying that. I’ve been feeling down about my figure and that means a lot.”
“Oh, of-” Joan is cut off as Candide digs into her coat pocket and pulls out one of her modified handguns, pointing it right at her.
“Still, I don’t want other students to think I’m handing out special treatment. I’m sure you understand.”
Candide clings to the shadows as she hunts for Frida and Cleo. However, the shadows are becoming much scarcer as Clone High becomes more disgustingly optimistic. She finds herself hiding behind waste bins and inside open lockers. Dozens of students pass her by to fight the scourge of gun violence, and none of their sickeningly hopeful faces belong to her targets.
She scampers away from the students, needing some quiet in order to plan her next steps. Thankfully, under the stairwell is just as abandoned as ever. The cobwebs are her only company, which fits the mood she wants. Except not really, since it’s hard to think with webs in your hair and mouth. How do the movies and TV shows make this work? This is just gross.
But after spitting the rest of the cobwebs out, Candide hears a familiar, and very welcome sound.
Skateboard wheels. Her targets are close.
Candide follows the sound. Avoiding rebelling clones. Finding more shadows to hide in as they head into the wing of the school still coated in thematically fitting despair. Past more and more bruised and trampled students who tried and failed to get into the locked cafeteria.
The door was unlocked now. Someone had picked the lock with what looked like an Among Us earring.
Candide pushes the door open slowly, slinking in and clinging to the walls. The lights are all dead, with only one flickering in the middle of the room. Two people are standing there, one short and one tall, saying something to each other. Candide sneaks closer, the sound becoming clearer, and the voices becoming more recognizable.
“We’re almost out of supplies,” the shorter one says. Kahlo. “I’m gonna need to head to the art room. You need to stay here. I’ll be faster on my own and you’ll be safe.”
“Okay,” the taller girl, Cleopatra, responds. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. I know the teachers have to be getting desperate now. They could do something really drastic.”
“Oh, you can say that again,” Candide mumbles to herself, getting her beanbag rifle ready.
“No worries, they’re gonna need more than fancy toys to stop us. Just wait for me.”
“Okay, and…”
Candide raises an eyebrow. This was getting juicy.
“Just in case… I’m glad I trusted you today. I mean that.”
“I know.”
Frida rides away into the darkness. And Cleo just stays under the light. Alone. Candide thinks about what the poor girl had gone through today. To learn about the dangers that modern teens face. She almost feels bad for her. But not enough to stop lining up her shot. She gets a perfect shot at the back of Cleo’s head and pulls the trigger.
In an instant, Cleopatra crumbles to pieces. As in… literally. Candide watches in shock as her head goes one way, her torso the other, and her breasts pop out of her top… and roll away. What in the hell?!
Candide runs over to her victim, and sees that she had been tricked. And to make it worse, it looks like they didn’t even try as hard. They just tied a mop to a painter’s easel, put Cleo’s clothes on it and shoved dodgeballs into where they needed round parts.
And from the shadows, she can hear snickering.
“I told you she’d buy that sappy bull crap,” Cleo laughs in the darkness.
“You did. I thought it was gonna be hella obvious,” Frida says. “Did you steal that last line from, like, a Star Wars flick?”
“Yeah, it was so lame that I had to get it in there!”
“Guess I owe you one of those bougie coffee drinks you’re obsessed with now.”
Seething, Candide fires a shot into the darkness.
“Show yourselves!” she shouts, spinning around, looking for any signs of the two bratty clones. “You want war, I’ll give it to you!”
A blur whizzes by Candide, slapping her in the back. She shoots at it, but misses. Another blur goes by, skateboard wheels humming in her ear as the hand smacks her in the ribs.
Candide’s rage simmers as the whacks keep coming. Arm. Shin. Stomach. She can feel Kahlo’s rough hands wiping against her over and over. Mocking her. Making all her military training look like a damn joke as she misses her shots by fractions of a second.
But when she feels a sharp pinch on her ass, she’s had enough. With lightning reflexes, she grabs her handgun, meets Kahlo’s terrified eyes, and fires a shot right into the little brat’s chest.
The board flies away into the darkness as Frida tumbles, ending face down on the floor. Candide walks up to the teen, kneeling to place the muzzle of the gun right on the back of her head.
“Any last words before I parade your head around school on a pike?”
Frida grumbles. Probably trying to speak through some broken ribs, Candide thinks with a smile. Hopefully she’ll give out from a punctured lung first and she can save the beanbag round.
“Just… two.”
As if on cue, the ground shakes. Candide nearly loses her balance, pulling the gun away from Frida and aiming into the shadows. The shaking grows stronger with each second, and then it hits her. This isn’t an earthquake.
These are footsteps.
Footsteps belonging to the one and only Genghis Kahn, the giant clone smiling and staring at her.
“Shiny… shiny.”
Candide wonders what that means as she points her gun at the boy. Then she notices something on the arm of her jacket. Something, upon closer inspection, that looked like a Freddy Fazbear nose piercing. She then looks back at Genghis and sees him staring at the piercing too.
To her horror, Candide realizes she’s covered in the crap. Everywhere she looked, she saw another shiny, Gen-Z themed bauble. Kahlo wasn’t just slapping her for the fun of it. She was making Candide into an oversized lure.
“Shiny shiny!” Genghis shouts, laughing as he runs towards Candide. The terrified woman tries to rip the jewelry off, only for it to slide out of her grip. The metal was all slick to the touch, but how?!
Candide hears a cheeky cough, looking down in shock. Kahlo stares up at her, looking totally fine despite being shot point-blank. Even making a pose while reclining. The teen just smirks, holding an empty container of unibrow styling wax.
“You might wanna start running,” Frida teases.
Before Candide can even think about an angry response, she’s booking it, arms in the air, screaming in terror, leaving a hole in the brick wall as she goes. And Genghis Kahn follows suit, making a bigger hole in the wall as he chases the terrified woman.
Frida sits and stares at the massive hole, smiling and wiping the excess gel on her pants.
“A’ight, looks like she’s not coming back round,” Frida says as she collects Cleo’s clothes.
“Good,” Cleo responds from the darkness. “If I see her again, I’m going to freaking scream. But, like, from frustration this time.”
Frida turns to the sound of Cleo’s voice. She reaches under her shirt, pulling out her stuffed platypus. The toy had the round buried in it, leaking cotton.
“See, I told you my stuffy would come in handy.”
“And your spare clothes. I can’t believe your stuff is so baggy that it’s basically my size.”
Cleo finally walks out of the shadows, dressed the same as Frida. Her clothes clinging to every inch of the mature teen’s body. Hugging those curves and leaving very little to the imagination.
“Can’t say I’m too crazy about the pants though,” Cleo says as she pulls at the legs. “These are so tight in the crotch that… Jesus, Frida! Did you fall on your face again?!”
“Haha, yeah,” Frida laughs, her nose bleeding as she uses all her strength to not look directly at the girl. “Yeah, that-that’s what happened.”
“Ugh, you’re impossible,” Cleo says as she stomps her way to Frida. She rips her clothes back from the small clone, digging a handkerchief from her skirt pocket. She then grabs Frida by the chin and starts wiping her clean. “I swear you’re just a pig sometimes. A dirty, filthy little pig.”
Frida can feel her knees growing weak as the blood starts gushing faster. “Cle,” she says weakly. “M-maybe you should let me do this…”
“Frida, stop being rude,” Cleopatra says forcefully, pulling Frida’s head closer to her chest. “Now stand still, be a good girl, and just do what I say. You want to be a good girl for me, right?”
“Oooooh gods,” Frida says as her eyes slowly roll back into her skull, motor systems failing. “Pats, you’re not helping.” Cleo grabs her forcefully by the collar to keep her upright, the blood now pouring from her nose like a busted sink as Cleo fails to see the subtext she's spitting out. “You’re not helping, and I mean that in best possible way! Please!”