"And next up in this tasteless disaster of a show is... auuuuuuugh." Madison ran a well-manicured hand down her face while her other hand held the microphone. "It's the gluten-free radio fucker in furry zebra-print shorts. Purple and green. Neon. Just kill me over again, even waking up in another murderschool would be better than this. --That wasn't literal, by the way, fellow host of this so-called fashion show."
Lysandre groaned, standing on the other end of the small podium with the other microphone.
"Believe me, mademoiselle, I'm well aware. I'm also not certain why -- Cecil, why would you wear jelly shoes, are you certain you're aware of the decade -- in any case, why the Foundation would put such a show on is beyond me, as is why we were assigned to assist in any way other than telling them that this was not a good idea."
Madison flipped her hair back. "Irony or some shit. Personally, I say this would never have happened if you'd actually gone shopping for me like I asked you to. I mean, you blew up fucking France, it's, like, your penance."
"Need I remind you that I have been under house arrest in this laboratory for a year," Lysandre grumbled. "Next up is... Monsieur Uryuu, just why would you wear leopard-print pants that are tight enough to threaten your circulation and then pair them with a leopard-print jacket in blue?"
"Prints are great if you don't overdo it. That? Not so much." Madison rolled her eyes. "And buddy, wearing a shirt that's torn to shreds on purpose to make you look like you got mauled by your fursona isn't as cool as you think it is. Next."
"Next is... Dr. Jookiba is wearing three aloha shirts at the same time."
"He does that every day."
"Indeed. I suppose it could be worse. Who's the next one?"
"Mochizuki, the name says..." Lysandre looked up from the papers. "Ah, yes. There he is, in... a knit vest, hip-hugging flare jeans that say CAUTION on the posterior, and a chain necklace that resembles a string of rubber breath mints."
"I wish he'd used caution," Madison muttered. "Then maybe we wouldn't feel the need to stab our eyes out. And what's with his hair? He looks like a cockroach."
"Charming," Lysandre said. "The next is... oh, no."
His face went straight into his hands as Schuldig stepped out in a blaze of... something. He was wearing a ruffled salsa top with polka dots that strongly resembled a clown, metallic neon parachute pants covered in mismatched patches, bright red shoes with a three-inch platform, a fuzzy jacket with a pink paint blood splatter, and one of those felt statement hats from the nineties with a giant happy face affixed to it. And sparklers on either side. Which were lit.
"Are you seeing this?" Madison gesticulated at Lysandre, at the crowd, and at the smirking model. "Take your hands off your face, you fake-edgy ginger, are you fucking seeing this mess!?"
The misery of this moment was only matched a week later, when the Future Foundation Fashion Show was declared a resounding success that would become an annual event.
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Lysandre groaned, standing on the other end of the small podium with the other microphone.
"Believe me, mademoiselle, I'm well aware. I'm also not certain why -- Cecil, why would you wear jelly shoes, are you certain you're aware of the decade -- in any case, why the Foundation would put such a show on is beyond me, as is why we were assigned to assist in any way other than telling them that this was not a good idea."
Madison flipped her hair back. "Irony or some shit. Personally, I say this would never have happened if you'd actually gone shopping for me like I asked you to. I mean, you blew up fucking France, it's, like, your penance."
"Need I remind you that I have been under house arrest in this laboratory for a year," Lysandre grumbled. "Next up is... Monsieur Uryuu, just why would you wear leopard-print pants that are tight enough to threaten your circulation and then pair them with a leopard-print jacket in blue?"
"Prints are great if you don't overdo it. That? Not so much." Madison rolled her eyes. "And buddy, wearing a shirt that's torn to shreds on purpose to make you look like you got mauled by your fursona isn't as cool as you think it is. Next."
"Next is... Dr. Jookiba is wearing three aloha shirts at the same time."
"He does that every day."
"Indeed. I suppose it could be worse. Who's the next one?"
"Mochizuki, the name says..." Lysandre looked up from the papers. "Ah, yes. There he is, in... a knit vest, hip-hugging flare jeans that say CAUTION on the posterior, and a chain necklace that resembles a string of rubber breath mints."
"I wish he'd used caution," Madison muttered. "Then maybe we wouldn't feel the need to stab our eyes out. And what's with his hair? He looks like a cockroach."
"Charming," Lysandre said. "The next is... oh, no."
His face went straight into his hands as Schuldig stepped out in a blaze of... something. He was wearing a ruffled salsa top with polka dots that strongly resembled a clown, metallic neon parachute pants covered in mismatched patches, bright red shoes with a three-inch platform, a fuzzy jacket with a pink paint blood splatter, and one of those felt statement hats from the nineties with a giant happy face affixed to it. And sparklers on either side. Which were lit.
"Are you seeing this?" Madison gesticulated at Lysandre, at the crowd, and at the smirking model. "Take your hands off your face, you fake-edgy ginger, are you fucking seeing this mess!?"
"Dear blessed Arceus and all his creations, mon trésor, why..." He groaned into his hands.
The misery of this moment was only matched a week later, when the Future Foundation Fashion Show was declared a resounding success that would become an annual event.