"Cookie Cutter Drone (2006)" - an Accepted x Melancholy Fantastic fic (848 WC)
Summary:
August 2006, SHIT University, Harmon, Ohio
Dukken and Abernathy choose a course at SHIT University
The sterile, hushed halls of the South Harmon Institute of Technology (S.H.I.T.) contrast sharply with the August humidity clinging to Abernathy’s threadbare band tee. He grips his crumpled accreditation application, the paper damp with nervous sweat. Each thud of a closing door echoes the frantic pulse in his ears. This is it. This is his last shot. He needs a win, something to prove he’s not just another reject in a sea of them.
A small, almost imperceptible tremor runs through the polished mahogany table as Dr. Alexander’s perfectly manicured finger taps impatiently. Her gaze, sharp and unyielding, drills into Bartleby Gaines, who stands before the panel, a defiant slump to his shoulders. The air crackles with unspoken tension, thick enough to cut with a dull butter knife.
"So, is that it, Mr. Gaines? You have one teacher for upwards of 300 students?" Dr. Alexander’s voice, a blade of ice, cuts through the oppressive silence.
Bartleby remains silent, his jaw tight. He stares at some point just beyond Dr. Alexander's left ear, a silent challenge in his eyes.
"Mr. Gaines! Answer the question!" she barks, her patience clearly fraying like a worn-out shoelace.
Then Bartleby snaps, his voice, when it comes, low but resonating with a sudden, raw power. "Nah, I'm not gonna answer your question, 'cause you guys have already made up your minds. I'm an expert in rejection, and I can see it on your faces. And it's too bad that you judge us by the way we look, and not by who we are. Just because you want us to be more like them, when the truth is, we're not like them, and I am damn proud of that fact! Harmon College, and its 100 years of tradition, but tradition of what? Of hazing kids and humiliating anyone a little bit different? Or putting so much pressure on kids that they become these stress freaks and caffeine addicts?"
Abernathy, lurking just around the corner, a phantom in the muted hallway, grins. Damn, he pwned her. The sheer audacity of Gaines’s words sends a jolt of exhilaration through him. This isn’t Harmon, not with its stuffy, soul-crushing rules. This is something different, something… free. He needs a course that's engaging, perhaps a bit chaotic or fast-paced, and potentially offers a quick reward or a chance for his mind to wander creatively. Something with freedom or novelty. His gaze drifts down the printed list of courses, a wild array of unconventional titles, and a flicker of hope ignites in his chest.
Across the hall, near a peeling poster advertising “Applied Existentialism,” Dukken shifts uncomfortably, his oversized hoodie pulled low, shadowing his face. The acrid scent of old coffee and fear hangs heavy in the air. He clutches a small, worn leather-bound notebook, its pages filled with illegible scrawls and pressed leaves. He hears Gaines's defiant speech, the words echoing the very anxieties that gnaw at him. Fucking typical. They always want to make you into some cookie-cutter drone.
He understands the rage, the raw frustration, but it also makes his chest tighten, a familiar melancholic ache. He doesn't want chaos or speed. He wants quiet, a space where his thoughts can drift like forgotten leaves on a slow-moving stream. Where are the more introspective courses, perhaps a bit melancholic or dark, but also those that allow for a connection to nature or birds? Maybe something for my sensitivity and appreciation for detail. His eyes scan the course offerings, bypassing "Advanced Calculus for the Chronically Confused" and "Monopoly: The Art of Property Acquisition." He needs something that speaks to the delicate, often shadowy corners of his mind.
Then he sees it. Day Dreaming 101. The words shimmer, almost like a mirage in the fluorescent glare. It sounds like a breath of cool, evening air after a long, stifling day. He pictures himself in a sun-dappled room, or perhaps a secluded corner of a garden, the chirping of unseen birds the only soundtrack. It’s perfect. It allows for connection to nature and birds, and it resonates with his sensitivity and appreciation for detail. It’s exactly the kind of introspective, melancholic space he craves.
Abernathy, still buzzing from Gaines's mic drop, finds himself drawn to the same listing. Day Dreaming 101. The title practically winks at him. It screams novelty, offers the promise of a mind allowed to roam, a space where chaos might be encouraged, not stifled. This isn’t a quick reward, not in the traditional sense, but the freedom it offers, the mental escape, feels like the ultimate prize. He can already feel the shackles of conventional academia loosening.
They both arrive at the same cramped registration desk, a rickety folding table manned by a student with perpetually tired eyes. Abernathy pulls out a crumpled ten and a five, the worn bills a testament to his meager savings. Dukken, with a quiet sigh of relief, produces his own fifteen dollars, a careful stack of bills. Their hands brush briefly as they both reach for the sign-up sheet, a silent, almost imperceptible acknowledgment passing between them.
