Title: The Folly of Crowds
Author: FerdieLance, aka Wells
Rating: T
Genre: Comedy/Romance
Status: Incomplete
Pairing: Franziska/Adrian
Summary: Franziska corrects the record.

(Cross-Posted to Objection! fanfiction archive)

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter One

-
Franziska von Karma, RA
Bundestrasse 52-58
Frankfurt am Main, 60311

Ms. Adrian Andrews
Consultant
25 Martingale Plaza, Apt. 205
Los Angeles, CA 90013

Ms. Andrews:

I have read your remarks with interest.

What is pathetic about fools is not that they have many follies, but that they have so few. Too foolish to invent new follies, they hone the ones they know to the point of mastery. Every fool is, in his own way, a perfect fool.

I do not wish to mar this perfection. Nevertheless, there are three follies that I tire of hearing ad nauseam. I will explain them, and you will listen.

Folly 1: von Karma Perfection Demands Complete Intolerance of Logical Error

Upon hearing a von Karma speak of perfect justice and perfect logic, fools naturally conclude that a von Karma must never make a mistake, or at least must never admit one. This is why they are fools.

My father's secret was this: he committed follies, and let me see them, and let me see one thing most clearly of all - that he never repeated them. Perfection, he said, means perfect experience. It means making every possible mistake once, and only once.

That is why we practice.

The first and only time I committed the post hoc folly, I was three years old. My father and I were waiting at a traffic light, and I coughed. In that moment, the light changed.

"Papa!" I shouted, "I made the light turn green!"

Smirking indulgently, he replied that, were this the case, I was necessarily a mass murderess. When I had the laryngitis, thousands must have perished! Shocked into understanding, I grasped my folly, and have never made that mistake since. That is, to borrow a phrase, one of my rules.

von Karma perfection does not demand complete intolerance of error. It demands near-complete intolerance of error.

Folly 2: My Father Drove Me Mercilessly.

The fools think that my father pushed me, even whipped me into the woman I am today. They are wrong.

He did attempt to pressure me, but only when I was a small child. For every year my classmates advanced, I was to be promoted three, regardless of my grades or my wishes. He saw to that. By the age of seven, I was surrounded by giants. Thus, I learned to stand up for myself.

But my marks were imperfect, even abysmal. Only constant interference on his part prevented disaster and a humiliating fall to, shall we say, the minors. Then, in the spring of my fifth year of schooling, he told me that there would be no more ultimatums. I could choose to be an average fool, like the fools who taunted me, the fools who whispered in the hotel lobbies and the restaurants, or I could seek perfection. Either way, he would no longer interfere. There would be no pressure.

From that day forward, my grades were perfect, my poise was perfect, my tests were perfect, and, when I became a prosecutor, my record was perfect. I was like a shrub allowed to grow on a wooden stake; when the time came, all that was necessary was to remove the support, and I retained the shape I was given.

(Need I add that he never whipped me? That was the malicious invention of one gossip photographer who, I should note, lived to regret it.)

Folly 3: A von Karma Must Be Perfect in Every Way.

Absurd nonsense! Do I claim to be a perfect musician, a perfect glassblower, a perfect trapeze artist? But I am told that this is the common interpretation of the von Karma creed. Folly, indeed! Is a band-saw expected to be a perfect pillow?

No, a von Karma is only perfect in the avenues that she chooses to pursue. But, in those respects, perfection is, indeed, expected. It is for this reason that I turn, without mincing words, to my closing point.

You seem intent on having me for a mentor. If so, I must, by nature, strive to be a perfect mentor. However, you seem equally intent on having me for a lover. If so, perfection in this respect is equally necessary. Taken individually, either proposition is acceptable. Taken together, they are mutually contradictory.

I intend to resolve this point. As you have thus far dodged the follies enumerated above, your company is quite tolerable. Complete the attached questionnaire at once. Then we shall decide what footing to continue our intercourse upon, if any.

Sincerely,


Franziska von Karma, RA

---

Chapter 1.5

Holden Flint, curator of the Los Angeles Museum of Sharp, Delicate, and Heavy Objects, is currently doing a walk-through with his latest consultant. He is unhappy with her; for some reason, she insists on hiring two security teams instead of one, and having them take turns watching each other.

"I'm telling you, Adrian, it's not a bad idea at all, not at all, but we simply can-not afford it."

"Maybe we can have them bid against each other?" Adrian flicks an envelope back and forth between her fingers, which is Adrian Andrews sign language for "I will not be concentrating on anything, including food, drink, and basic safety precautions, until I open this."

"That might work," says Holden, in his patient voice, "except that the point of giving a job to the lowest bidder is that you do not also give it to the other person."

"Oh."

Oh? That's it? "Are you okay, Adrian?" The curator peers at her over the rim of his glasses, in the belief that this makes him look 'knowing,' rather than 'incapable of understanding the purpose of glasses.'

"Yes. I just got a letter, that's all." Adrian twirls the envelope between her fingers, then presses it firmly to her chest. "What were you saying about giving the contract to both of them? That's a great idea, sir!"

Rather than answer, Holden keeps walking, Adrian always lingering a step or two behind. They're passing under the Giant Macedonian War Mace right now, which is suspended by a fraying wire. Adrian meant to repair it last Wednesday, but... letter day. In any case, she'll get around to it sooner or later.

Suddenly, Holden slaps his thigh in what is presumably a gesture of exasperation. Although he considers stomping his foot, too, for emphasis, he decides that this would be gauche. Then, in the sharpest voice he can muster, he barks, "Ms. Adrian Andrews!"

Oh, that perked her right up! The old Flint no-nonsense attitude will do that to you.

"You're a good worker, Adrian. I like you. But it's impossible to keep you on-task on Wednesdays, and sometimes Tuesdays, too. I'd understand Fridays, but who on earth sticks their head up in the troposphere on Wednesdays? Do you see why I am saying this? I don't mean to be harsh. The rest of the time, you manage somehow."

"No, sir, I understand," says Adrian, standing up ramrod-straight beside a suit of armor (with massive halberd.) "I will keep my personal affairs entirely out of my professional life!" She nods sharply for emphasis, wheels around to face the north door, elbowing the armor, and walks briskly ahead, now leading, rather than following, Mr. Flint.

"It's just... I worry, you know?" says Flint, scurrying to catch up. "A grown woman should have poise when a young man starts giving her ideas - and I know it's a young man, I can tell by your distracted look, and having seen a few women in love in my day. But no man wants a woman who turns to jelly like this!" Well, I'd guess at least one man in this room does, thinks Mr. Flint, and he's not made of steel. But let me have my platitudes.

Platitude or not, something about the line seems to have struck Adrian. She wilts a little, again. "No, she wouldn't, would she?" she says, absently. She leans up against a glass case filled with historical explosives, several of which have not been properly disarmed; she was going to do that the Wednesday before last.

"Wait. She?" Comprehension. "Oho! I always thought there was something funny about you!" Oh, hell, now I've done it, look at her eyes. "I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that!"

"No, no, it's fine." Adrian gives Mr. Flint a warm smile, a smile that says, with absolute sincerity, It's okay. I'm not offended. It's not as if I was going to sleep with you or something, right? "I'm not... in a relationship with her."

"... you're not?"

"She lives in Germany."

"Oh." That's sort of sad. I guess. Warm, paternal smile. "Listen. I think I've been misreading this whole situation, okay?" Warmer, paternaller smile. "Take a break, read your letter, and give your friend a call."

"Yes, I'll do that right away! Just as soon as I finish dusting the museum's self-destruct button!"

"Don't! Don't worry about it, okay?" Paternal smile that is almost creepily warm. "Good luck."

---

I really liked seeing Adrian-at-work -- I think people often neglect her actual life in Franziska/Adrian stories and just focus on her emotional troubles. And Franziska's letter-writing style seemed very apt.

You might want to track down a beta reader, though, as there were some grammar errors that distracted me from the story.

Grammar errors? Where? I must find and crush them!

---