The week following the Great Singing Chalk Debacle was, by Aegis Academy standards, relatively calm. Kazuo Tanaka, humble janitor, went about his duties with his usual air of quiet bewilderment, mopping floors that seemed to re-soil themselves with supernatural speed and occasionally "finding" lost textbooks in improbably helpful locations. The faculty, while still occasionally glancing nervously at pieces of chalk, seemed to have collectively decided to file the incident under "Unexplained Academy Weirdness – Do Not Probe Further Lest Sanity Unravel." Dean Von Hammerfaust even gave me a curt nod that might have, in a different light, almost resembled approval. Or perhaps it was just a muscle spasm from residual coffee-salt trauma.
Internally, of course, I was buzzing with anticipation. The obsidian cube on the Dean's desk, my little interdimensional agent of chaos, had acknowledged my latest "suggestion." Today was the day the practice dummies would find their voices. Or, more accurately, have voices (and some rather specific opinions) thrust upon them by an omnipotent being with a penchant for ironic pedagogy.
I'd spent a good portion of my "off-duty" hours (which, for me, was just a different flavor of observing the universe) refining the parameters. The dummies wouldn't just talk; they'd offer specific feedback. "Your right hook is telegraphed, dear." "A little more follow-through on that energy blast, if you please." "Might I suggest a brief intermission for tea? Earl Grey, if you have it. Two sugars." They would be polite, almost drolly so, even in the face of being repeatedly pummeled, blasted, and generally heroically assaulted. The juxtaposition of brutal training and drawing-room etiquette struck me as particularly amusing.
The true beauty of this experiment, I mused as I clocked in, the Wheezing Death-Trap having successfully delivered me once more, was its potential impact on the students. Overconfidence was a rampant weed in the fertile soil of burgeoning superpowers. What better way to prune it than with critiques from the very objects of their aggression? It was educational, really. In a deeply unsettling, possibly therapy-inducing way.
My first task, as always, was a slow, meandering tour of the academy's nocturnal hotspots, my mop and bucket my ever-present companions. I made sure to pass by several of the major training grounds – Gamma-7, Delta-4, the ominously named "Pain Peninsula" (which was mostly used for durability testing and, I suspected, working out particularly aggressive faculty grudges). The dummies stood sentinel, canvas-skinned and stuffed with impact-absorbent polymers, their painted-on stoic expressions belying the imminent awakening of their inner critics.
I paid a little extra attention to Training Ground Delta-4, Kyra's preferred haunt. She'd been making noticeable progress since the "fizzled shard" incident. Her movements were more controlled, her power output more focused. She was still prone to bouts of frustrated rage-blasting when things didn't go her way, but there was a new thoughtfulness to her practice. I wondered how she'd react to a practice dummy politely requesting she adjust her stance mid-Razor-Shard Volley.
The obsidian cube, back in the Dean's office (which I "cleaned" with meticulous care, ensuring no one disturbed my little helper), felt… eager. The subtle thrumming had a new note to it, a resonance of anticipation. It was, I decided, rather enjoying its new role as an implementer of bizarre pedagogical experiments. Perhaps I'd promote it to "Assistant Dean of Unforeseen Consequences" later.
As part of my setup, I also "tidied" the small kitchenette attached to the main faculty lounge, ensuring the electric kettle was full and a fresh box of assorted tea bags (including a rather nice Earl Grey I'd "found" behind a stack of outdated requisition forms) was prominently displayed. One had to provide the necessary props for one's theatrical productions, after all.
The academy was quiet in these pre-dawn hours. The calm before the storm. Or, in this case, the calm before the politely opinionated inanimate objects. I found a comfortable spot behind a stack of discarded gym mats in an observation gallery overlooking Training Ground Gamma-7, Kazuo appearing to be taking a well-deserved (and entirely feigned) rest. From here, I had a perfect view.
The first student to arrive was a burly young man whose power, as far as I could tell, involved turning his fists into something resembling granite. Let's call him Rock-Knuckles Ronnie. He swaggered into Gamma-7, cracked his stony knuckles with a sound like tectonic plates shifting, and eyed a particularly unfortunate-looking dummy.
"Right, you ugly sack of stuffing," Ronnie declared to the silent dummy. "Prepare to meet your maker! Or, well, your un-maker!" He wound up for a punch that could probably dent a bank vault.
He connected with a mighty THWACK. The dummy shuddered, a puff of dust erupting from its canvas chest.
And then, a calm, slightly muffled voice emanated from the dummy. "My word. A commendable effort, young man. Though, if I may be so bold, your weight distribution was a trifle off-center. Resulting in a slight, shall we say, dissipation of kinetic energy."
Ronnie froze mid-follow-through, his granite fist hovering inches from the dummy. His jaw, which was currently also granite, seemed to slacken. "Wha… what did you just say, pillow-pal?"
"Pillow-pal?" The dummy's voice had a hint of reproach. "I prefer 'Advanced Combat Training Unit, Mark Seven,' if you don't mind. And I merely suggested a minor adjustment to your stance for optimal power delivery. No need to get your metamorphic epidermis in a twist."
Ronnie slowly lowered his fist. He circled the dummy, peering at it with suspicion. He poked it. "Is this… is this some kinda new AI upgrade? Grumblesnatch, you magnificent bastard, you finally got funding!"
"AI?" the dummy replied, sounding mildly offended. "Sir, I am stuffed with recycled cotton and the disappointed dreams of previous students. My current vocalizations are… an unexpected development, even for me. Now, about that right hook…"
Ronnie, utterly bewildered, took a tentative swing. WHUMP.
"Better!" the dummy chirped. "Much more focused! Though perhaps a tad aggressive on the follow-through. Remember, dear boy, controlled power is true power. And speaking of control, I find myself experiencing a rather peculiar craving for a cup of Earl Grey. Would you happen to know if the faculty lounge is accessible at this hour?"
Ronnie just stared, his granite jaw now practically on the floor. He backed away slowly, then turned and fled Gamma-7, muttering something about "sentient punching bags" and "needing a very, very long nap."
I, Kazuo, had to stifle a snort of laughter into my (conveniently dusty) cleaning rag. This was even better than I'd hoped.
The chaos, as it often did when I was involved, escalated beautifully.
In Delta-4, Kyra was practicing her Razor-Shard Volley with newfound precision. She unleashed a perfectly aimed trio of shards that embedded themselves dead-center in a dummy's chest.
"Exquisite grouping, Ms… ah, I don't believe we've been formally introduced?" the dummy said, its voice a surprisingly cultured tenor. "Though, if I might offer a suggestion, a slight increase in rotational velocity on the projectiles could enhance their armor-piercing capabilities. Also, have you considered the psychological impact of, say, a faint lavender hue to the shards? Just a thought. Aesthetics matter, even in combat."
Kyra, who had been looking rather pleased with herself, froze. Her metallic skin seemed to lose some of its luster. "Did… did you just critique my shard color?"
"Merely a suggestion for optimizing intimidation, my dear. Now, that last volley? A solid 7 out of 10. Room for improvement, particularly in the transition between defense and offense. And, while we're on the subject of improvements, this constant pummelling does rather work up a thirst. A spot of Darjeeling, perhaps?"
Kyra actually stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over her own feet. She stared at the dummy, then at her hands, then back at the dummy. Her expression was a delightful cocktail of disbelief, indignation, and dawning horror. "You… you want tea?"
"Desperately," the dummy sighed. "Being repeatedly disemboweled by high-velocity chrome projectiles is surprisingly dehydrating."
The news spread through the student body like wildfire. The training dummies were talking. And not just talking – they were critiquing, offering unsolicited advice, and, most bizarrely, requesting specific beverages.
Students emerged from training grounds looking pale and shaken. Some were arguing heatedly with the inanimate objects. Others were trying to reason with them. I overheard one earnest young hero trying to explain the socio-economic implications of a training dummy demanding imported Ceylon tea to a dummy that was patiently (and repeatedly) correcting his grammar.
Professor Grumblesnatch, drawn by the commotion, stormed into Training Ground Beta-Max to find a student known for his super-strength (let's call him Captain Clobber) engaged in a surprisingly civil debate with a heavily dented dummy about the merits of oolong versus jasmine tea as a post-workout refreshment.
"What in the name of sanity's last stand is going on here?!" Grumblesnatch roared.
Captain Clobber jumped. "Professor! This dummy, sir… it says my uppercut lacks 'finesse' and that I should 'explore my emotional core' to unlock my true potential! And then it asked for a biscuit!"
The dummy, its head lolling at an unnatural angle, added, "A digestive, if possible, Professor. And young Clobber here really should work on his breathing. Such shallow chest compressions. Tsk, tsk."
Grumblesnatch looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. His face went from red to purple. He actually seemed to vibrate.
By the time Dean Von Hammerfaust arrived, alerted by a flurry of panicked faculty members, the academy's training wing was in a state of utter, bewildered pandemonium. Students were clustered in corridors, whispering nervously. Several dummies had apparently been "escorted" (i.e., dragged) to the faculty lounge and were now politely declining offers of instant coffee in favor of "something leafy and preferably hand-picked by Tibetan monks."
The Dean surveyed the scene, her face an unreadable mask. She saw me, Kazuo, "helplessly" trying to polish a smudge off a wall amidst the chaos.
"Tanaka," she said, her voice dangerously calm, a tone I was coming to recognize as the precursor to either a brilliant strategic maneuver or a truly epic headache for someone. "Explain."
"Ma'am?" I feigned maximum Kazuo-esque cluelessness. "It appears the… training apparatus… has become… conversational. And rather particular about its beverages. Most unusual. Perhaps a solar flare? Or… a collective consciousness arising from a shared experience of repeated blunt force trauma?"
Her left eye did its signature twitch. "Collective consciousness," she repeated, drawing the words out as if they were coated in something unpleasant. She then strode into Gamma-7, where a dummy was patiently explaining the finer points of aikido to a baffled-looking student whose power was spontaneous combustion.
"Advanced Combat Training Unit, Mark Seven," the Dean addressed the dummy, her voice brooking no argument. "Cease all vocalizations immediately. That is an order."
The dummy turned its stitched head towards her. "Ah, Dean Von Hammerfaust. A pleasure. While I appreciate the directness of your command, I must point out that offering constructive feedback is integral to the pedagogical process. Furthermore, I was just about to suggest a seminar on the benefits of chamomile tea for pre-combat stress reduction. Young 'Blaze' here seems a tad… wound up." Blaze, the spontaneous combustion kid, promptly burst into small, nervous flames.
The Dean closed her eyes for a moment. Took a deep, fortifying breath. When she opened them, there was a glint of steely resolve. "Tanaka," she called, without turning. "Fetch me bolt cutters. And a very large incinerator. It seems our training equipment has reached the end of its service life."
A collective gasp went up from the students. Even some of the dummies looked momentarily alarmed. "Incinerator, Dean?" one piped up. "Isn't that a tad… extreme? Perhaps a robust software patch? Or a nice long holiday in a quiet storage facility?"
"Silence!" the Dean thundered, and for once, even the dummies seemed to obey.
And so, I, Kazuo Tanaka, spent the remainder of my shift assisting in the Great Dummy Decommissioning. It was a strangely solemn affair. Students watched in silence as their former tormentors, now strangely eloquent, were unceremoniously dismantled and carted off to the academy's industrial-grade waste disposal unit (which, I made a mental note, probably had its own interesting stories to tell). Some dummies offered parting words of advice. One hummed a mournful dirge. Another simply requested that its stuffing be donated to a worthy bird sanctuary.
As the last dummy was wheeled away, a sense of weary peace descended upon the training wing. The obsidian cube on the Dean's desk, I sensed, felt a faint thrum of satisfaction. Another successful operation.
The Dean found me sweeping up stray stuffing. "Tanaka," she said, and for the first time, there was something almost like… respect? Or maybe just profound exhaustion… in her voice. "You have a knack for being present when… things… happen."
"Just doing my job, ma'am," I said, Kazuo's voice humble. "Keeping the place tidy. Though, I must admit, the talking dummies were… a new one on me."
She grunted. "See that it doesn't happen again. With anything. If the floor mops start demanding union representation, I'm holding you personally responsible."
"Understood, ma'am. No unionized mops."
As I clocked out, the sun casting long shadows, I felt a familiar sense of accomplishment. The students had received a valuable, if bizarre, lesson in humility and the importance of listening (even if the advice came from a canvas sack). The obsidian cube had proven its versatility. And I had managed to cause widespread delightful chaos without anyone suspecting the humble janitor.
Walking towards my Wheezing Death-Trap, I pondered my next move. The cube was clearly capable of imbuing inanimate objects with specific, quirky sentience. What about… food? The cafeteria food, to be precise. If it could develop opinions, perhaps even refuse to be eaten by students it deemed "unworthy" or "lacking in heroic potential"…
The culinary and psychological implications were staggering.
Yes. The universe was my playground. And the Aegis Academy cafeteria was about to become its newest, most delicious, and possibly most terrifying, attraction. The Dean was going to need a lot more coffee. And I, Kazuo, would be there to make sure it was (probably) not salty.