#apologies for the way the corrosive beans look

[idrawgaystffs]

[Cave Johnson: Aperture Science only delivers the best of course! *Cough Cough* Cave Johnson, we’re done here. *Cough*]

[elsewhereuniversity]

Twice a year, every year, the fencing team holds a tournament outside.

Not the entire team, of course. Not anyone who isn’t aware of the true nature of the school, for one, and for another, no freshmen, ever. The unwary and the untested are left in the dark. Fencing, after all, is a game about risk management; no point in bringing danger on those unprepared for it, and no point in needlessly offending the spectators.

Nobody questions who organizes it, but when the team arrives, the setup is done: One machine, two reels, the weights and shims already neatly set by the side for testing. Sure, the system isn’t plugged in at all, but it’s familiar enough that you could almost relax, if it weren’t for the darkness on the edge of the clearing where it’s held. There’s the weight of eyes settling on you if you notice it; those who are invited know better than to notice.

Those that arrive have specific instructions, even those that won’t raise their blade once: clean your whites as best as you can. Team socks all around, united front. Clean the rust from your swords and the corrosion from your lames. It’s, perhaps, the neatest the team ever looks.

And then there’s the referee. At Elsewhere, just as at every school, they are dressed elegantly, standing out amongst the herd of fencers. Unusually for EU, they don’t carry salt, don’t wear iron; some of the younger fencers instinctively tense as they turn their back to the invisible spectators, but a referee has never been taken; who would dare? The fair folk recognize power when they see it.

The bouts start like a well-oiled machine:  two fencers plug into the reels, weapons are tested, they salute each other, salute their referee, and then- the only deviation from the normal procedure- salute the spectators. The masks go on, the referee holds out their hands, and the tournament begins.

Sabres go first, a cacophony of blades on masks and the shrill beep of machines. The referee doesn’t even bother to time these matches. It’s by far the fastest of the matches, decisions being made in a split second. There’s rules about who wins when both lights go off. Nobody ever explained them to the gentry, which is a source of puzzlement for all right-of-way weapons. The two prevailing theories are that they instinctively understand adherence to rules that may go unspoken, or that they have no idea what’s going on and just watch the calls. Either way, the air in the clearing is silent except for the occasional rustle. The last bout finishes, the competitors salute again, shake hands, and leave.

Next comes foil, restricting the target area to only the torso. There’s the usual amount of gimmicks here- touching your opponent over your own shoulder, fleching, the occasional flick- but for the most part, the touches come about through intense planning and traps. It also takes much, much longer. Most bouts finish before the three-minute mark, but some time out. There’s a collective wince when someone’s blade snaps, flying (thankfully) in the opposite direction of the watchers, but in the end, it goes off without a hitch.

Finally, there’s epee, and those bouts hear the most restless shifting in the shadows. The other weapons are more polite- Only hit your opponent above the waist, to spare his horse. If your opponent parries you, he has the right of way. Point in lines give you protection, you can’t lose your right of way unless they beat your blade. There is nothing polite about being stabbed in the face out of nowhere, or the hand. The blades are heavier, too, much more likely to leave a bruise. It’s easy to imagine the pain a blade like this could cause to someone who gets burned by iron.

At the end, there’s no fanfare or ceremony; in as close to unison as possible, the team salutes the watchers and files back to put away their gear and decidedly not talk about what just happened, thank you very much. It’s not hard to put some of it together; the timing coincides perfectly with the arrival of the spring court and the autumn court, after all, and the extra salutes… well, respect is paramount in the sport, as is essential protection.

It takes a couple weeks before someone will mention it, of course. It’s the same question every year: why? Is it a demonstration of respect? A threat? Just for the fair folk’s entertainment?

Irregardless of the reason, it’s quietly known among the team that if you or someone you truly care about gets taken, your squad captain will leave a politely worded note on a tree in the clearing, and unless the offense is great, the taken person will show up the next morning, along with some gift of apology. It’s usually good form to donate that to the team, in case someone needs it: the Venn diagram of fencers and knights is not a circle, but it’s pretty close.

Belief is powerful at Elsewhere. It’s unwise to anger those who primarily believe in their ability to stab you very good with a sword.

-bean