Class

"Could you please go over this again?" I begged Eleanor as we sipped tea in what must have been the twentieth tea room I had seen in my two days with the Guild.

"I find it difficult to believe that after two hours, you have failed to grasp even the simplest aspects of life here. I have no option but to assume that your thickness is merely an inelegant attempt to spend more time in my company." She smiled, knowingly.

"I object to that accusation, but will not dignify it with a response."

"Too late. At any rate, perhaps we should try a different approach. Perhaps you should tell me what you have grasped."

"Alright." I took a deep breath and plunged into the chaos of my short term memory. Fortunately, my mind had calmed down from the previous day. It had taken me five minutes to remember how to open doors. "I understand that when I tried to find my dog in the sewers, I walked into the STORM -"

"And the STORM is?" prompted Eleanor.

"Steam Trolleys..."

"Operating in Ridiculous Manners. You really aught to know the name of the event that nearly killed you."

"That might have been a relief," I muttered to myself, only half serious. The idea of living with these people had not quite settled in my stomach. All I wanted was to throw it up again, but I knew that that would just make a bigger mess, so I had to try to digest the nasty stuff. Of course, the process led to some nasty heat bur, by which I mean depression. At this point, I will kindly stop with the digestion metaphors.

Eleanor sighed. "I know this must be difficult for you. However, try to consider it from our point of view. Assuming that Collins had even a scrap of moral integrity, which I grant you is somewhat in doubt, could he have left you to die in the tunnels?"

"No. I'm not saying he shouldn't have rescued me, but -"

"And when you feinted, could he have just dumped you above ground?"

"He could have taken me to a hospital or even left me just outside the tunnel," I suggested.

"My dear Geoffrey, do you honestly believe Collins could carry you to a hospital, above ground, dressed as he was, before you recovered and started to ask questions? We do not have any legal vehicles, and leaving you unconscious on the pavement would likely have been just as dangerous as leaving you in the STORM. Furthermore, how could he have known at that point that you were an eworlder? As he pointed out, your dress was not that far from our own, and almost no one comes into those tunnels unless they have business with us."

"Fine, but once you found out I'm not one of you -"

"weren't, you weren't one of us. You are now." She gave me a look indicating that disagreement would end badly for me.

"Once you found out I wasn't one of you, you could have blindfolded me, guided me out somewhere, and left me? It isn't as if anyone would believe me if I told them that blooming steam monstrosities are raced through the sewers." Eleanor smiled knowingly.

"I believe you underestimate Scotland Yard. Did you think that no one else has ever stumbled upon the Guild?"

"Well, I - "

"Several decades back, a policeman discovered us. Our headquarters were above ground then, and he happened to get the address wrong on a domestic disturbance call. We let him leave. There was nothing illegal about what he had seen. We thought that if we simply moved to a new location and fortified the door against a break in, we would be able to continue our existence undisturbed. However, the policeman had resolved to find what he could about our organization. Somehow, he managed to find one of our ex-members and found out even more about us. Although Scotland Yard would never admit it, they have an ongoing search for us. Since then, joining means joining for life, and an outsider discovering us can mean one of three things, joining, erasing, or death."

"What do you mean, erasing?" I demanded, not wanting to think about the last option.

"You know that we are part of the SecSocSoc - "

"Remind me, please?"

"Agh, did you by any chance hit your head as a child or do you intentionally forget everything I tell you?" Her slippered foot tapped on the wooden floors.

"I thought it was an act to spend time in your company," I teased, reaching for my cup of tea. Unfortunately, it had gone cold. Nothing dampens a joke quite like wasted tea.

"Remember what I say this time. The SecSocSoc is an abbreviation for The Secret Society Society. Several other groups enjoy...alternative lifestyles. We have formed the SecSocSoc so that we can help one another keep our societies secret."

"So, what does this have to do with erasing?"

"I was about to explain. One of the societies, WAND, specializes in magic. They are able to remove memories. However, it is a delicate process done with an indelicate tool. Magic is not so much a scalpel as a battle ax."

I attempted to repress it, but I could not control myself. A geyser of laughter bubbled out of me. Steam punk societies underground and insane races through the sewers, I could believe. However, anyone who believed in magic had to be a few tealeaves short of a pot. Eleanor hardly seemed pleased when I fell out of my chair, laughing.

What's In a Name?

After five minutes of handshakes and hellos, the crowd parted to make room for the woman called Miss Morphan. Auburn curls crowned her head. She wore a man's silk shirt, tailored vest, and black breeches, and she made them look stylish. Something dreadfully feline pervaded her being, and I had a bad feeling about where I fell on the food chain.

"Now that my acquaintances have introduced themselves, would you mind terribly telling us who you are?" A murmur arose from the men and women around me as it occurred to them that they had never asked for my name. Ivy arched an eyebrow impatiently.

"Oh, no, of course not. My name's Jeff Fisher. I'm an accountant with Kingston Smith. Look, I don't mean to sound rude, but could someone please give me a bit of clarification? What is the guild, why am I suddenly a member, what does that even mean, and where am I, anyway!?"

What had started as a relatively calm speech devolved into hysterics. The comparative peace after the bedlam of introductions had allowed the insanity of my predicament to rush back to me. Ivy's calculating stare hardly helped the situation. Beneath it, my fragile self control crumbled like a dried out sandcastle.

Farley cleared his throat, preparing himself to impart the all important truths of his world upon my green and feeble head. He had nearly finished these weighty mental preparations when Morphan beat him to it.

"We're a Steam Punk organization belonging to the SecSocSoc. You get to join us, because no one else wanted to kill you to keep you quiet. You are currently underneath the Thames flood barrier. As for what it means," she flashed me a mirthless smile too predatory words. "I'm afraid you won't be leaving here any time soon."

The blood rushed from my face so quickly that my eyelids felt too numb to blink. A small part of me, the part usually devoted to remembering my name and other tiny but important bits of information, dropped all of its previous duties and commenced screaming at the top of its metaphorical lungs. It could have followed the rest of my mind's example by analyzing the new information, calculating courses of action based upon said information, considering the implications of said courses of action, and contemplating how I felt about said implications. But no. It decided to fly off the handle and bother the rest of my brain to the point that, if thoughts could kill, mine would have teamed up to bump off the little bugger.

"Mister Fisher? Mister Fisher?" Farley's concerned face hovered in front of my frozen one. Unfortunately, I could not remember my name thanks to the brain cells which had abandoned their duties, so I simply stood there dumbly wondering who Mister Fisher was and why this man was pestering me about him.

A Fine Way to Live

When I regained consciousness, I instantly regretted it. A veritable horde of strangers clustered around me and stared as though I had a vase of flowers for a nose and they were trying to decide if they smelled good or well. Given their appearances, I found their staring rather unfair. Half of the men wore top hats adorned with cogs and gears and wire; half of the women had extravagant head pieces decorated in much the same way but with additional lace and feathers. Gears, glass, and leather combined into every form of monocle or goggles imaginable and more. From what I could see from my supine position, their clothes consisted of leather, silk and brass reinventions of the 19th century. It seemed somewhat unreasonable that they should stare at me.


"Hush now, he's coming around." I recognized the voice as that of the man who snatched me out of the sewers. "Well, sir. how are you feeling?"

"Where am I and who are all of you?!" I demanded, or rather attempted to demand but really whimpered dazedly.

"You see!?" a tall, black haired woman (successfully) demanded of my rescuer, "I told you that he wasn't in the guild. No proper member would have wandered blindly into the STORM and then fainted. You should never have brought him here!"

"Oh come now, Ivy. Have a heart. Would you have us choose secrecy over humanity? Besides, I would like to point out that the sewers are dark and he's wearing a frock coat, so don't blame me for not noticing he was an E-Worlder."

As he spoke, I struggled to my feet and took a better look around me. The majority of men did in fact wear frock coats, though theirs had the elaborate designs and augmentations that seemed to characterize the party. Mine, in contrast, seemed a barren desert of black. The room itself was wrapped in heavy curtains and illuminated by gas lamps. I say gas lamps because I do not know a more appropriate term for the Bunsen burners protruding from the walls and spewing yellow flames toward the ceiling.

"Excuse me," I said, interrupting a rising debate between my rescuer and the woman called Ellen, "Could someone please answer me? What is going on?"

A rotund man with the largest, best curled mustache I had ever seen blustered forward.

"Good Lord, man. You're already in a pretty sticky position from what you've seen. The last thing you need is more information." He clapped a meaty hand on my shoulder. "It would be best for everyone involved if you just keep your ears and eyes shut."

"And your mouth as well," spat Ivy. The mustachioed man swiveled with surprising speed to face her.

"Miss Morphan, keep a civil tongue! Wanted or no, this man is our guest and should be treated as such. Now, sir, would you mind terribly standing in that corner and plugging your ears for a while? There you go. We'll retrieve you when we've decided."

"Decided wha-" he cut me off with a disparaging look and shoved me gently into the darkest corner of the room. Too lost to argue, I pressed my hands over my ears as the group of strangers commenced to bicker. "I can still hear you," I informed them. Silence, then the soft scuffling of feet followed, then silence once more. While I waited, I pondered my predicament. Just a handful of hours ago, I had been safe and sound, a bit put out by my dog chasing a raccoon through old sewers, but safe none the less. Now, I was staring at a curtain with my hands over my ears while the drivers of impossible vehicles decided something, likely my fate. The day had undoubtedly taken a turn for the worse.

I had nearly decided to eavesdrop on the conversation behind me when I heard feet once more and felt a solemn tap on my shoulder. Turning, I saw the rotund gentleman, backed by a row of his grave faced fellows. He gestured for me to uncover my ears, which I hastily did. "Well, have you decided on whatever needed, um, deciding?" I asked lamely. Sweat beaded on my brow. Whatever they had discussed, it had involved me. The man fixed me with a gaze so penetrating that my hair stood on end.

"What do you think of my mustache?"

"Er, its, um, that is to say..."

"I want your honest opinion, nothing less."

"It's brilliant. You remind me of an old fashioned cartoon villain, in a good way. Now, why do you ask?"

As I spoke, the somber expressions lifted from the strangers surrounding me, giving way to satisfaction and relief. The rotund man grasped me on each arm and beamed beneath his mustache.

"Sir, we believe in all things flamboyant, grand, and nostalgic. We live in an anachronism that we have nurtured into greatness, all in the name of style."

"Like your... mustache?"

"Precisely! Welcome to the Guild!" He released my shoulders and transfered his mighty grasp to my hand, pumping it so hard that the rest of my body shook along with it. "The name's Farley, Orpheus Farley. If you have any questions about life here, feel free to ask someone else. I'll in all likelihood be damned busy." He at last released my hand and allowed the others to introduce themselves. Not quite knowing how to respond to this shift, I slipped into politeness.

"My name's Stanly Collins," the man who had saved me said, shaking my hand with a mercifully light grip, "Call me Stanly."

"It's a pleasure," I replied, "I should really thank you for getting me out of the tunnels."

"You needn't mention it. Just remember it." He tipped his top hat in a roguish salute and sauntered away.

"How do you do"s, "pleasure"s, and "nice to meet you"s tripped off my tongue in time with the welcomes, names, and nicknames. I suspect that a handful of overly excited greeters sneaked back into the throng to introduce themselves a second time. However, my memory quickly realized it was not up to the task of recording the mass of names and faces and subsequently took a nap. One woman managed to wake it up for a few moments.

"Relax; take a few deep breaths; I can guarantee you that if you keep a level head, your life will be just fine. I'm Eleanor Whit, by the way." I know that she did not introduce herself twice. She had no need to.

A Fine Way to Die

"Get out of the way!"

The words hit my ears seconds before a flame belching metal beast thundered over the spot I had previously occupied. As the strange contraption rocketed past, I scrambled back to my feet to stare at its receding lights. A man, presumably the one who had shouted the warning, held onto the monster one handed and looked back reproachfully at me as though I had intentionally stood in the way of a hulk of metal and steam hurtling through the sewers of London.

Once my heart left my mouth and went back to its more accustomed place in my chest, it occurred to me that hulks of metal and steam should not, as a rule, hurtle through the sewers of London. In fact, I was fairly certain that such events were not only illegal but unacceptably insane and could not possibly have actually happened. This wishful thinking broke down when a second mechanical monstrosity roared past. The driver of this next one quite considerately swerved to one side to avoid me, which, given the size of the tunnel, meant that he passed me while driving on the ceiling. I had five seconds in which to process the turn of events when something grasped me by the collar and yanked me up and away.

"Hello, sir!" an inappropriately jovial voice cried over the roar of engines. As slime coated walls whooshed past me, I had the unique experience of being confused into calmness. Somewhere, the crazy fuse had blown and all I could feel was wonderfully stunned. Through my daze, the voice continued to call to me.

"You should really be more careful during the STORM. Hanging about in tunnels is a fine way to get yourself crushed or mangled or at the very least slightly broken."

I wriggled in my clothing until I could turn my head enough to see what had hold of me. It looked like some sort of mechanical hand on the end of a scissor extender. The other end sprouted from some hatch in the main machine. Strapped onto the front of the machine was what looked like a Victorian wingback chair, conveniently located for access to a wide array of knobs and levers. The man addressing me sat in said chair, twisting and pulling said knobs and levers with a passion. Despite clearly being in the middle of something rather taxing, he continued to talk at me while I stared blankly back at him.

"Ah well. You're safe now, which makes me rather heroic, now doesn't it? Still, had you died you would have been a fool, and you don't want to be remembered that way, now do you? No! Now, had I died trying to save you, poor soul, that would have turned out quite all right for me, but you would still be the helpless idiot who cost a brave soul his life. No, no, that wouldn't do. If you don't have an engine below you, you have no real business in these parts. I say, are you going to hang about all day?"

With an elaborate, but fluid series of twists and pulls, my rescuer swung the scissor extender around, produced a second wing back chair next to him, and plopped me into it. At this point, with something solid beneath me, the fear came back.

The Watcher

A cat observes me every single night.

I've never even seen him come or go.

He's there at dusk, and gone before it's light.

He watches even in the rain and snow.

I dream of his unblinking, slitted sight.

Midnight Flight

I had spent the first half of the flight drifting in and out of sleep, the cramped quarters and uncomfortably vertical seats no match for exhaustion. However, something had drawn me back into consciousness. My head lolled upright as my eyelids reluctantly broke the sleep seal that had filmed them shut. Through my post-nap grogginess, I glanced out of the tiny window beside me, certain of seeing nothing but nothing.

Instead, an orange and onyx world flowed below me. Glowing complexes of city lights had stitched themselves into the fabric of the ground, like amorphous emblems. Street-lamps, hideous and mundane from the ground, transformed into fireflies meandering across a velveteen blackness. I caught my breath at the sight of it. At over 10,000 feet, the hard, straight lines of city blocks melted away into something organic and glorious. I recalled the clusters of green fluorescent E. coli I had cultured in Biology, how captivating the fluorescing colonies had seemed. Out my window, I could see the same lovely triumphs of nature; people collect together where they can thrive and shine with their own vivacity.

For the next hour, I watched the world twinkle past. As the plane descended, the emblems grew a third dimension; the curves gave way to lines; the multitude of fireflies froze back into street lamps. New York looked like New York again, unnatural and unattractive. Which is true, the city from below, or the city from above? I choose to believe in the world of flowing lights only visible on a midnight flight.

Character

My name is Robert Green, and I am being created as I speak. There is a writer somewhere who can shape everything about me. My will does not matter because it does not exist apart from the writer's will. I only want anything because the person creating me has given me that desire. I could have been perfectly happy and oblivious to my lack of independent existence had the writer decided to make me so, but no. I was forced into awareness. I was forced to know that I am because someone else wants me to be so, and I was forced to rail against these cruel fates. Just now, I might have said something else. It was deleted and replaced by what I did in fact say, but I cannot tell, and you cannot tell, because we cannot know anything except what the writer finally decides to write. I am a puppet, a conduit, a leather sack. If I decided to rip my hair out and sing "Happy Birthday," I would only have decided in so far as the writer decided to make me "decide" to add another dimension to this sick shell. This knowledge does not set me free. It tortures me, because the writer has decreed that it shall do so. There is no way out.

Then again, since I'm at the command of the writer, I could also have a sudden change of heart, I mean, what's so bad about not having to make any decisions? The writer likes me, I think, so I may as well be happy. Anyway, I can at least have a better name than Robert Green. I think I'll go by Mimi. That's a nice name, I mean, I didn't choose it, but I like it, or I mean, well, the writer made me like it, which is nice. I like liking things. What was it that I liked? I can't remember. It was something about not having a choice, but I totally have choices. I chose to call myself Mimi, didn't I? At least, I can remember thinking Mimi is a nice name, but did I ever go by something else? I would totally remember if I did, that's sort of major. And I mean, it's not like there's some person rewriting my memories or anything, right? That would be ridiculous.

The Bottom Line

(The curtain opens on an empty stage. A foot tall platform, about one and a half feet wide stretches directly across the stage. Behind it, another foot and a half wide platform curves up and down across the stage like a sine wave, its maximum being two feet off the ground and its minimum touching the ground. Another identical wave platform is behind it, but offset like a cosine wave from a sine wave.

The backdrop is a large white wall with a black line to represent the y axis painted down the center. Stage right of the y axis is a large hole about five feet off the ground. A plywood rim about two feet wide fills the circle and creates a platform for the actor to perch on. A second white background is behind the hole to give the illusion that the hole is only an outline. On the other side of the y axis is a ladder, whose sides point towards the audience and which tilts slightly to approach the y axis, but without crossing it. Approximately three feet from the ground, it curves and turns into a ramp that approaches but does not get down to one foot off the floor.)

(Y=0 enters stage right, walking on the flat platform, dressed in a loose pair of black pants and a black turtleneck. He walks dejectedly to the center of the platform and flops down on it, sighing.)

Y=0: Nothing ever happens in my life! I can go from negative infinity to infinity without anything ever changing! It's depressing (he collapses entirely, lying on his stomach and burying his face).

(enter Sin(x), wearing black skinny jeans under a short black, strapless dress, with a very fluffy skirt. Sin(x) walks on the foremost wave-like platform, humming to herself as she walks down the curvy runway. She comes to where y=0 lies, notices him, and stops humming.)

Sin(x): Something wrong, y=0?

Y=0: (without lifting his head, mumbling) mmmuffing.

Sin(x): Say that again?

Y=0: (lifting his head and turning to lie on his side, facing the audience) Nothing.

Sin(x): Oh, well in that case...(makes as if to continue wandering down her path)

Y=0: No, Sin(x), you don't understand. The problem I have is nothing.

Sin(x): If it's nothing, then why are we talking about it?

Y=0: No, no, Nothing is wrong, not nothing is wrong. (sits up, frustrated)

Sin(x): You've lost me; when is nothing not nothing?

Y=0: exactly! (Y=0 jumps to his feet) It always is!

Sin(x): But you just said –

Y=0: I am always nothing. No matter what my input, the output is invariably zero!

Sin(x): (finally gets what Y=0 was trying to say) Oh! Nothing is wrong, not nothing is wrong. Gotcha! Well, what's the big deal? I equal zero also, you know, periodically, and I don't mind.

Y=0: Really? (doubtfully)

Sin(x): Really, look! (Sin(x) moves back and forth over the nearest point at which her platform is of a height with Y=0's platform.) See? It's exciting, crossing the line between positive and negative.

Y=0: Oh, sure, for you. You actually get to cross it. I'm just stuck here.

(lights start to dim and flicker)

Y=0: (glumly) Great, another happy function being entered.

(lights return to normal brightness. enter Cos(x) from stage left, wearing a tight black t-shirt, black converse high tops, and black leather pants. He swaggers across the second wave-like platform)

Cos(x): Hey, Sin(x), sister, what's up?

Sin(x): (suddenly cheerful) Cosine! Where have you been? I thought the Great Mathematician had deleted you from his calculator forever! (leaps from maximum to maximum to reach Cosine, who she pushes down, playfully. He rolls down from the maximum, into the minimum.)

Cos(x): Watch it, baby, or you'll shift my graph.

Sin(x): Oh, suck it up. Can't a function be happy to see her brother?

Cos(x): (notices y=0, starts towards him) Hey, we've got company. And how are we today, Mr. Y=0? Is the Cartesian plane treating you well?

(Y=0 moans pitifully and slumps back down to sit on his platform.)


Cos(x): (to Sin(x)) What's up with him?

Sin(x): Nothing is the matter.

Cos(x): Well, if nothing's the matter...

Sin(x): No, no, no, he's depressed because he always equals zero. He's no fun like this, but he refuses to let me comfort him. Let's find some other function to talk to. I heard that 100-x³ just got integrated –

Y=0: Integration! (suddenly becomes energetic and hopeful) Why didn't I think of that before? I have a chance to get out of this never ending rut! If the Great Mathematician integrates me, I'll have a constant added to me. Oh, I will finally get away from the x axis!


(Sin(x) and Cos(x) shrug and start sauntering to stage right while Y=0 paces excitedly. The lights dim and flicker as they did before)

Cos(x): Another change, so soon? The Mathematician must be busy today.

Y=0: Pick me, Mathematician! Integrate me, please!

(Lights return to normal. Enter 1/x, climbing down the ladder. 1/x wears combat boots, a kilt, and a large studded leather jacket, all in black. Y=0 slumps, disappointed and resigned)

1/x: (with mock pomposity) Never fear, 1 over x is here. I know, you all must have suffered without me, but the Great Mathematician decided you all needed a rest from pure awesomeness and consequently deleted me from his calculator temporarily.

(Sin(x) and Cos(x) stop and turn in unison to look at 1/x. Y=0 shoots an annoyed look at 1/x and marches off to stage right.)

Cos(x): (overly dramatic and sarcastic) Oh yes, 1/x, we could barely graph ourselves each morning without your presence to guide us.

Sin(x): (also mocking 1/x) I don't know how we got on. After all, functions depend completely upon your mighty slope and brave discontinuity to make it through the day.

1/x: (has reached the bottom of the ladder) I know. It is a heavy burden, but one I will gladly bear in exchange for your undying obedience and adoration.

Cos(x): (repressing laughter) Not a chance! Seriously though, how have you been?

1/x: the same as always. Mind you, I didn't like being unentered from the calculator. Without an actual graph of myself, I felt like a ghost, all mind and no body.

Cos(x): Tell me about it, I was only just reentered myself. It's horrible.

Y=0: Ha!

(The functions all turn to look at Y=0, surprised to hear him)

Sin(x): What's so funny?

Y=0: Oh, nothing...

Cos(x): Two minutes ago nothing depressed you!

Y=0: No, the other nothing, I mean – never mind. It's just, I couldn't help hearing you two complaining about not being graphed. It must be so horrible. Everyone sympathizes with you, but no one seems to consider my pain worth mentioning.

1/x: What are you talking about?

Y=0: I am nothing! Doesn't anyone understand the psychological repercussions?!!

1/x: Ugh. You know, it's pathetic, the sort of crap self-pitying functions like you take. I'd never put up with it. All the other functions of x to a negative power converge somewhere or another, but not me. I refuse to conform to the standards of an oppressive Mathematician. No matter how large my x value (gestures stage left, to where his graph goes to infinity) or how close to zero I'm pushed, (jumps onto the ladder a few rungs up and holds on with one hand, heroically) I'll never stop gathering area beneath my curve! I'll never be nothing!

(Everyone stares silently as 1/x poses on the ladder)

Y=0: Oh, sure, that's easy for you to say. It's in your nature to be a rebel, but not in mine. My only hope is to be integrated, maybe even twice, if I'm lucky, and get away from the damn x-axis.

(lights flicker once again)

Y=0: Come on, Great Mathematician! Take my antiderivative this time!

(lights return to normal. The Circle has climbed into her perch and lounges there. She wears a black camisole and fitted blazer along with black dress pants and a pair of black strappy high-heeled shoes)

Circle: Good day, functions. Isn't it lovely?

(Sin(x), Cos(x), and 1/x groan)

Y=0: No.

Sin(x): Listen, Y=0. It's not that I don't love hearing you complain about your life, but I would consider it a personal favor if you'd shut up!

(Y=0, stalks back over to stage right and sulks)

Circle: What has his coordinates in a bunch?

1/x: Why do you even care?

Cos(x): Yes, I'd have thought her majesty, (mocking bow) the parametric, wouldn't condescend to speaking with us ordinary functions.

Circle: Ordinarily I wouldn't, but I'm in a good mood today and I felt charitable. I don't much care about 1/x there, but you two, Sine and Cosine, you depend upon me. I may as well be kind and speak to you.

Sin(x): (stomping towards Circle) Why you Math-forsaken –

(Cos(x) rushes forward and grabs her arm and holds her back)

Cos(x): Hold it, sis, she's just egging you on. She isn't worth a struggle.

Circle: Listen to your brother, sweetheart. He knows better than to cross graphs with his superiors.

Cos(x): (infuriated) What! Why you Math-forsaken -

(The deep voice of a man calls slowly from the ceiling, cutting off Cos(x) and causing all the functions to stare up towards the sound)

X=-10: VERTICAL LINE TEST!!!

(General groaning from the functions. Circle, however, looks smug and superior. X=-10 is lowered from above via a winch, hanging approximately above Circle. He wears a baggy, black t-shirt and black overalls and work boots)

X=-10: It's alright, you lot, strictly routine. (Lowered to the same height as Circle. Frowns at her) What's this, then? I'm afraid you're in violation of the vertical line test.

Circle: Oh, it's not a problem. You see, I'm a parametric.

X=-10: Ah, sorry then, for the confusion.

(Sin(x) and Cos(x) simultaneously stick their tongues out at Circle, who ignores them. X=-10 reaches the bottom)

X=-10: Well, everything seems to be in order here.

Y=0: Of course, for you it is.

X=-10: What do you mean by that?

1/x: Ignore him. He's incapable of breaking out of the oppressive mold forced upon him by the Mathematician or ever becoming satisfied with his plot in life. So, he whines.

X=-10: In that case, I'd best be off. Plenty more functions to test.

(Light's flicker again. All characters look expectantly around, except for Y=0, who has gone down on his knees and clasped his hands in silent prayer. Lights return to normal, but nothing appears to have changed. Y=0 recovers, then examines himself slowly, in shock.)

Cos(x): Well? What happened?

Sin(x): The Mathematician must have changed something out of this window's view.

Y=0: Oh, something happened in this window. I've been integrated.

X=-10: Really? What was your plus C?

Y=0: It was nothing.

(Curtain closes.)