TITLE: Keep it Gay (or, The Slash Clause)

Genre: Parody/Humor

Disclaimer: No, Guilty Gear is not mine. Furthermore, I urge the reader who is reading this to be warned; this bit of fan fiction could quite easily be found offensive to any number of people. In my own defense, I must say that this tale is written merely in jest, for it is the product of a bored mind and a 12 hour road trip. This story is no more than an attempt at satire on my part. And before I get flamed for being a 'homophobe' I would also like to note that, in keeping with the trend of naming fan fiction stories after songs, 'Keep it Gay' happens to be a rather catchy tune from the recent musical 'The Producers'. If you're still reading at this point- read on. Not like I can stop you. Still, remember, you were warned! On a completely different note, kudos to those who can pick out my assorted geeky references peppered throughout this irreverent tale.


When considered, particular segments of OUTRAGE allotted to Sol Badguy and Ky Kiske could be seen as incredibly ironic.

Consider the fireseal, for example. Flame is indeed a destructive and, at times, random element. Even so, fire was the first force of nature that was truly tamed by mankind. Fire allowed man to ward off the cold of the elements, to push back the darkness of the night, to protect himself from natural predators, and to forge weapons stronger than any held before.

The irony of a self-serving, anamalistic pariah (such as Sol Badguy) carrying a symbol of one of civilization's cornerstones is indeed a delicious one.

Likewise, the elemental magic of the thunderseal provided a stark contrast to the character of its owner. Lightning, inherently chaotic in its nature, had never fully been tamed by man. Traditionally seen as an embodiment of raw power and divine fury; sudden peal of thunder always possessed the ability to rattle even the most jaded of men.

And yet, fate had placed the elemental sword into the hands of an utterly non-random individual. As a sacred knight and eventual leader of the Seikishidan, Ky Kiske had always adhered to any number of codes and creeds, religiously placing himself within these boundaries set by others, for it was all he knew.

As the sun slowly sank below the westward horizon, these two paradoxes faced each other atop a wooded hilltop. No words passed between them; the level of emotion that they held for each other transcended mere conversation. A cold wind slipped through the treeline, ruffling their hair and clothing. Yet they themselves remained utterly motionless, giving the impression that they were little more than a pair of exquisitely rendered statues.

A blur of movement quickly dispelled any thoughts of sculpture as the pair fluidly shifted into motion. Raising the blades that were so contradictory to their own natures, Kiske and Badguy moved into an all-too-familiar dance with one purpose in mind; to insure that only one of them would live to see another sunrise.

Hoping to end the battle (and rivalry) with a single blow, Sol swung his massive blade downwards in a vertical arc. But before the fireseal's razored edge could bring a new meaning to the term "parting your hair" Ky's own blade was sent upwards to meet it. The two segments of Outrage crackled with the impact of the blow, showering their owners with a combination of electrical sparks and red-hot embers.

A quick turn of the wrist on Ky's part locked the two blades together by the hilt. Sol and Ky leaned into their blades, each ferociously struggling for the precious bit of leverage that would send his opponent's blade flying from his hands. Ky spared a glance upwards, only to find that his face was a mere inch away from the snarling visage of Sol Badguy. The Knight's blue eyes locked upon Sol's brown ones and narrowed, barely concealing the utter contempt with which he held the bounty hunter.

This lead to three closely-timed events that changed everything.

Inexplicably, the two leaned in closer to cross that mere inch, lips meeting in what is commonly known as a 'passionate kiss' or 'first base' in some circles.

Just as soon as this happened, both swordsmen immediately surged away from each other, earnestly spitting to remove the taste of alien saliva from their mouths.

The third event was just (if not more so) as random as the first two. Even as Sol and Ky sprung away from each other, a surprisingly deep voice, amplified through the use of a megaphone, bellowed, "CUT!"

Soon thereafter, the owner of the voice (and megaphone) stormed from the treeline, heading towards Ky and Sol. He was a scruffy, bespectacled and irate looking individual, clad in the simple 'uniform' of blue jeans and a t-shirt that teenagers have worn for years. He gripped the megaphone tightly, but opted not to use it as he approached closer. Even still, his voice was more than enough to properly convey the depth of his frustration with the pair.

"Tell me-...What the hell was that?" He demanded of the still-spitting  swordsmen.

Sol was the first to speak as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The damn frog slipped me the tongue!" He pointed an accusing finger at the frog in question; Ky Kiske.

"Deed not!" Ky spat with a nasal (and stereotypical) French accent. "Zat one grabbed my ass!" He pointed back at Sol, upping the ante by sticking his tongue out at him.

An animalistic growl issued forth from Sol as he ceremoniously raised his middle finger in Ky's direction. "You wish, Frenchie."

Kiske emitted a derisive snort in retaliation, "Bah, do not look at me, monsieur. You are the one as gay as the ukulele, with your tight pants and obsession with queens."

"That's QUEEN!" Sol bristled, mood growing even fouler. "One of the greatest damn bands ever created- but you prolly wouldn't know about that, you cheese-craving surrender monkey." He planted the fireseal point-first in the ground, crossed his arms, and allowed his scowl to turn into a bitter smirk as he noted "Besides, I'm not the one in a skirt."

"Eet is not a skirt!" Ky whined, "eet's a uniform! Besides, the Scottish wear skirts too, and nobody makes fun of them, American pig-dog."

"That's because they make up for it by eating haggis" Sol noted, smugly. "You just like to dress like an altar boy, wouldn't surprise me if-" Before he could finish his insult, Sol was cut off by the voice of the mysterious third party, again amplified by the megaphone.

"Shut -UP!-" In desperation, the megaphone was hurled at Sol, bouncing off of his headband-covered forehead with an audible 'bonk', knocking him to the ground. Ky snickered, only to earn a glare and a "You're next if you don't shut up, Kiske." from the former megaphone owner. Ky blinked and shut up, as necessary.

Sol sprang back to his feet just as quickly as he had been knocked off of them, shooting a murderous glare at the as of yet unnamed megaphone-thrower. "Just who the hell do you think you are?"

The third man sighed, running a hand through his frazzled brown hair. "Well, I suppose I should explain myself. I'm...in charge here."

"What?" Ky remarked incredulously.

"Coulda fooled me." Sol noted dryly.

These words earned another glare from the third man. "That's the way it's SUPPOSED to work, at the least. I'm the writer." Ky and Sol merely peered at him, the looks on their faces plainly indicating their lack of faith in the newcomer's sanity. The writer continued

"Look-" he grumbled, crossing his arms, "Aren't you two wondering just why you suddenly took a break from trying to kill each other for the sake of making out?"

"Oui." Ky noted. Sol simply grunted in a tone that indicated agreement. Content with these answers, the writer continued "I'm kinda responsible for that-" he blinked, then quickly stepped backwards before Sol and Ky could start killing him. "But I didn't want to!" Ky's blond eyebrows shot upwards in puzzlement while Sol merely quirked his head and tightened his grip on his sword.

The writer bowed his head shamefully, emitting a penitent sigh "You don't understand…I- I-. I- HAD to. Make you two play kissy face, that is."

"What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Sol. Ky merely looked on, befuddled. Both swordsmen would have rather preferred to start fighting each other again, but something- perhaps the fear of another amorous interlude –kept them listening.

"It's like this," the apparent author began. "I am a writer. Through some strange twist of fate, I thought it'd be fun to doodle up a bit of fan fiction for your particular continuity." This earned him yet another befuddled look from his audience, which he made a point to ignore "Don't ask. In any case, it was a mistake. I didn't know about the 'slash clause' at the time."

"Slash clause? Doesn't sound that bad. It have anything to do with swords?" Sol again spoke up, giving the fireseal an eager look.

"I wish. I'm not exactly sure of the exacts of the 'slash clause' myself, but it has a lot to do with the romantic fantasies of-" he paused, dramatically, "Fangirls. Spoony fangirls." The words escaped his lips spitefully;

"You don't look too much like a girl to me." Sol noted, smirking maliciously.

"Or like a spoon." The forgotten Ky spoke up, eliciting near-identical looks of unbelief from both Sol and the Writer.

The writer merely muttered an unintelligible epithet concerning Ky's intelligence and continued with his explanation. "Anyway, what it all boils down to is the fact that, I'm required to put out at least ONE story based entirely around romantic claptrap. This is that story."

"But we are both male!" Ky sputtered.

"That's debatable." Sol drawled gruffly.

"Doesn't matter. As a matter of fact, I think they ENCOURAGE unthemely homosexual junk such as this."

"They?" Ky asked, blue eyes suspiciously casting about the forest.

"The fangirls." Sol deducted.

"Spoony Fangirls." The Writer corrected Sol, "Besides, if they were here, you'd know- reckon they'd prolly have you two rutting like a pair of wild weasels by now."

"Rutting?" asked Ky, showing his less than perfect grip of English vocabulary.

"Weasels?" Asked Sol, displaying his less than perfect understanding of strange metaphors.

The Writer took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Nevermind, we're behind schedule as is. We just need to figure out a way to get you two playing tonsil hockey again."

"Non, monsieur." Ky huffily proclaimed in that snooty manner that the French work so hard to cultivate. "I have had enough of your little games, you sad little man. And so, I shall bid you adieu." Having said this, Ky merely turned his back and stalked off to disappear into the treeline- an impressive feat for one garbed nearly entirely in white.

"For once, the choir boy's right." Sol noted gruffly. He grabbed up the fireseal and roughly pushed his way past the Writer, knocking the shorter man onto the ground.

"Wait!" the writer desperately called out to either of the departing swordsmen.

"Piss off." Sol growled, not bothering to turn around. Not to be overdone, Ky's voice replied from somewhere in the forest with an unintelligible string of French obscenities.

A few moments passed as the Writer sat in the middle of the clearing, alone, save for the chirps and calls of passing songbirds. He had failed; if he had merely allowed the situation to go on as it was going, Ky and Sol would have had a simple epic battle- probably quoting the bible or spouting dramatic dialogue as they did so. Heck, if he had been lucky, one of them might have died, leading to some other interesting occurrences.

Instead, he forced the hated enemies together, trying to forge a romantic relationship where there was none. All he had done was merely confuse the pair and send them stalking off uncooperatively. Come to think of it, the Writer was lucky to have made it out of the encounter without either Sol or Ky deciding to beat him senseless- a task either could have easily accomplished, even without the assistance of their magical swords. They most likely would have been without their rights to do so- and yet, they didn't.

Wait- the Writer mused over these new points in his head –why DIDN'T they attack? Sol Badguy was supposed to be, as his last name suggested, not a particularly nice individual. It would be expected that the fugitive Gear would open the proverbial can of whoop-ass on someone who not only questioned his sexuality, but got in the way of him fighting with Kiske.

Kiske was an interesting matter too- as the Author (or at least the Author's incarnation) he was pretty much claiming to be God. A devoutly religious figure like the Sacred Knight should have debated and argued this point, again, spouting off dramatic Bible quotes.

Yet, neither Sol or Ky entirely acted as they expected. Strange.

The Writer sat in that clearing for a few more minutes, allowing the strange factors and problems to nag at his consciousness. Then, slowly, realization passed over him like a passing thunderhead; he was the Writer with a capital 'w'.

To prove his point, the Writer pulled a pen and a pad of paper from his back pocket, opened it to a blank page, and penned a simple sentence.

Night fell.

It did. What was once a bright and sunny afternoon inexplicably became a darkened midnight hour, silver moonlight filtering through the trees. The Writer grinned, then began scribbling down more sentences with inspired eagerness.

After making his way off into the forest, Ky realized something vitally important that had eluded his mind up until that point: he had absolutely no idea where he was going. As a result, he quickly became lost. With no wine, no stinky cheese, and no American tourists to look down upon, the Frenchman found himself far out of his element. He was then abducted by a troupe of flying monkeys, never to be seen again. But nobody really minded, since he was French.

A din erupted some distance away. The sounds of flapping feathered wings, branches breaking, and hysterical pleadings in French reached the Writer's ears, eliciting a grin from him. He continued.

Sol Badguy didn't fare better. While attempting to light a cigarette, he accidentally lit his own mangy mane of hair on fire. Luckily, before the fire could spread, Smokey the Bear appeared and beat the flames out with his shovel. As one could imagine, this beating had a less than positive effect on Sol's head. And so, he lived the rest of his days thinking himself no more than a very large chipmunk. Alvin, Simon, and Theodore never seemed to notice.

With these words scribed down, the Writer allowed a contented sigh to escape his lips. He stood, basking in the cool moonlight. With such absolute control over his own literary universe, it was no wonder that Sol and Ky never complied to the 'Slash Clause'- he was unconsciously keeping them apart even as he argued with them. With both of the swordsmen attended to, there was only one more thing to take care of.

The man stood alone in the clearing, opting to merely gaze into the stars. And yet, he was not alone. The sound of a snapped twig betrayed his watcher's presence, prompting the man to zero his eyes upon the intruder. It was a young woman, wearing the standard 'power suit' and bearing a briefcase. Her impractical dress and businesslike demeanor gave her away immediately- a lawyer.

"I've come to represent the Spoony Fangirl Association of-" he cut her off.

"You do realize, the Slash Clause is foolish and unnecessary. Romance is overrated, anyway. It's hard to write about, and it can get boring. Why not replace it with something about zombies? Everybody loves zombies."

The lawyer-fangirl merely blinked, dropping both her jaw and her briefcase "Wow, your wisdom is both amazing and sexually appealing at the same time. Love me."

The man merely grinned, dipped the lawyer-girl, and drawled. "Hail to the king, Baby," before he kissed her in an oh-so dashing manner.

Grinning crookedly, the Writer merely drawled "I've ALWAYS wanted to do that." He yawned slightly, and finally jotted down two final words.

The End.