diatu | 3 Classes, 1 thread.

3 Classes, 1 thread.

Who: Minamimoto and whoever is unfortunate enough to take his classes.
What: Oh yeah, he's supposed to be doing that teacher thing, huh?
Where: the various classrooms he ~~infests~~ utilizes.
When: Sometime after his thread with the dragon.
Warnings: Still not sure how the thread with the dragon will end... so guessing, so may need to retcon some fudging if he winds up, you know, dead or all powerful or something. Also warnings for bad math jokes and Sho being Sho. Possible violence. Because really, he is SO ZETTA SHO! (I had to do it, sorry!)

Still not the Composer of this UG, but Sho Minamimoto would sooner subtract his arm and divide his face than give up. In the meantime however, classes....

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After all that mucking about in the sewers, Minamimoto had a ton of new inspiration for his trash sculptures. And new materials. He's been washed but... not all the trash he's working with have been.

For those new to his art room, the ceiling has been removed. Somewhat violently, giving him a whole lot more vertical space. Space needed for the giant tower of trash that dominates one side of the room, leaning seemingly precariously at a 72 degree angle, today, but it never seems to fall, and nothing falls from it. The walls are all covered in spray paint, the work of variou students, except for the one painted with primer for today's lessons. The floor is a riot of colours, spilled paint lending the floor a personality all its own.

While waiting for any student willing to step into his classroom, Minamimoto is perched about seven feet up on the trash sculpture, working on the latest addition. When completed it will be a skeletal long dragon spiraling up the tower, somewhat reminiscent visually of a roller coaster.

Art class! Aziraphale had decided to unwind from his recent scheming and planning of a demon-summoning with a bit of light extracurricular activities and artistic endeavors. He was expecting a bit of nice watercolors. Maybe some oils (though that would certainly be advanced). Sculpture, even. Perhaps even something very modern, like Photography.

It sounded fun, regardless of whatever kind of art the class turned out to be focused on, and he had always enjoyed having little human hobbies. Illuminated texts aside, it was a wonder he hadn't taken up art before, but then imagination was always best left to humanity.

He entered into a room that smelled a bit like a junkyard and freshly sprayed aerosol paint.

"Ah," he said, giving the sculpture-in-progress a once-over, looking like he had just been surprised to taste burnt egg-remains in the middle of a custard. "Modern art."

Spoken like someone with zero taste. Minamimoto dropped down in front Aziraphale with ease. He slid his hands into his pockets and leaned his upper half back lightly, smirking. "You think you can do better you factoring hectopascal?" He gestured to the blank wall. "Find your beauty."

Up close, it could be seen that one of his hands was black, leading to black flames racing up his otherwise pale arm. It was hard to say if the coloration was natural, a tattoo, or something else.

"A 'factoring what'??" he squawked indignantly.

Aziraphale had been called a great many derogatory things in his life, but this was a new and unique one. What's worse, he didn't even know what he had been called. Something mathematical, by the sound of it, as he knew the varying parts of the words, but he wasn't sure how that was a thing you called a person. Quite rude.

He eyed the blank wall with vague trepidation, like a bather who was afraid the water was a bit too cold or dirty and was therefore rethinking that whole swimming business.

"I was hoping you might have a smock or some such," he said, looking over the blackness inking up the young man's arm. "Seems like a messy by the looks of things."

"Hectopascal, you brain dead binomial." A smock? Really? "Are you sure you belong in art class? It is for people who have taste. And you? You're out of your vector."

"Oh, really! Is this any way to treat a student?! I should think you don't want students at this rate, that you intend to chase us off so you might have the studio all to yourself--" He was most certainly NOT projecting here. "I'd like you to know, I have perfectly FINE taste, you salvage-sculpting sciolist!"

"This is my class and I only allow two things. Flawless calculations and beauty. If you are not adding to a set that contains one or both of those options you are welcome to subtract yourself. I have enough to do teaching the students who want to learn to deal with a yoctogram like you."

"I don't see how disagreement on artistic philosophy is grounds for my expulsion from your class! Granted, I happen to prefer the works of the Old Masters and some of the newer artists," by newer he meant such things as Baroque, Roccoco, and even scandalously well-into the 19th century with the Impressionists and the like.

"But that doesn't mean I can't..." He gave the scrap sculpture prim consideration, and resolved to agree to disagree. "...appreciate modern art. Crowley took me to an Andy Warhol exhibit once. It's practically the same idea." It wasn't. "Look. I'd like to learn to create. It seems like an important part of the human experience."

the Angel had no clue how rare it was to be threatened only with being kicked out. Usually he threatened to erase students who irritated him. But he did consider. He was all for people wanting to find their beauty.

"Fine. Lesson 1. Art is messy. Art is life. Modus Ponens, life is messy."

He scooped up two of the spray paint cans, a pale blue and a black. He tossed the blue at the man. He'd catch it or he wouldn't. "Get messy. Find your beauty."

The can clattered to the floor a short ways from his feet, but not for lack of a fumbled try.

"Life is messy," he muttered unhappily, picking up the can, wiping his hand on his trousers with a grimace, and pondering the wall. The wall did not ponder him in return. It was a wall. He wasn't finding beauty in it. A human would see potential here in the straight lines, the imperfect texture, and the sturdiness. All Aziraphale saw was a devastatingly blank canvas. Where were the parameters? The rules? What was he supposed to do with this? Beauty was subjective. There was no right or wrong and he was still coming to terms with the gray areas of life. Creativity was a spark from somewhere within that he wasn't sure a Principality possessed.

He turned the can over in his hand and pressed the button. Paint blew out near the bottom of the wall and he gave a small, embarrassed jump in surprise.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"What do you wish someone would add to that wall?" he asked by way of an answer.

He was full of uncertainty. The paint can held no answers.

"...I don't know. Something that makes people smile."

"Alright," he said with a nod. "You count yourself as people?"

He had an inkling of where he was going with this, but Aziraphale still gave due consideration to the question. "More or less, after everything, I suppose I must do."

"Fine then. What set if added to that wall would multiply your appreciation of it?"

Have you chosen to add yourself to this class? Well subtract the chatter and take a seat. The example on the board today to start the lesson is a little more complex than usual... which given he did a whole month of lessons on a circle that somehow had a ratio of circumference to its diameter that was EXACTLY three. He still has that circle in his back pocket, still wrestles happily with it some nights. Hey, it was a whole month of not trying to kill anyone because he was elated at this new math puzzle.

Someone really didn't get that it was meant as a punishment.....

"ALRIGHT YOU ZETTA SONS OF DIGITS! I AM IN THE MOOD TO START SUBTRACTING SOME ZEROES! SO GET RUNNING, FIFTY LAPS BEFORE THE BELL. ANYONE WHO FAILS WILL FACE ERASURE! T=60M. GO!"

A shame he couldn't cut the timers into their hands, here....

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3 Classes, 1 thread.

Art Class

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Maths

Phys ED