Movellas is my second home. The Movellians are my second family. I feel like you guys are some of my closest friends, even though I am the biggest weirdo to ever walk the face of the Earth. And I've often found myself wishing that Movellas was running the world, or that Movellas was a sort of school. If it were, I would've high-tailed it out of my middle school already. But because that simply isn't possible (not yet, anyway. Maybe Movellas will, one day, open a school for writers), I decided to bring the fantasy to life with a Movellas fanfiction. Here, writers and artists are taught to hone their skills with classes on story development, drawing, and even lessons devoted to a particular fandom. This is the Movellas School. Are you ready to join? //A thanks to @Kween Kwait for making the cover, and a thanks to @SnowPotato_ for making the crest!//


5. Airport in Innsbruck, Austria // SNIPER



Innsbruck Airport, Austria // SNIPER

"New students will be escorted by an employee from the army base in Garmisch, Germany to the bus, which will be parked in Slot #15 by the front of the Innsbruck Airport in Austria. The students will then be driven to M.S. in the company of their fellow Movellians in a well heated, fully supplied and comfortable bus labeled as 'The Movellas School Transportation'. 

- The Movellas School Pamphlet




When I, Rosaline ‘Sniper’ Kirkland, stepped off of the plane and into the Austrian airport, I was about ready to slap the shit out of the escort that my parents had sent along with me. I knew that they were doing it for my protection. In fact, Tomas and Maria Kirkland were a tad overprotective. They’d grown up in a place where no one could be trusted, and, now that they had moved out of those places, they wished for me to be able to do what I wanted, when I wanted to, without having to look over my shoulder at all times.

But they had other pieces of rationale for sending an escort as well.

Their reasoning for providing me with my escort - Sierra, I think her name is - was also to show off their wealth. Mama and Father pride themselves with being the richest couple in our small town in Idaho, which isn’t saying much, being as there are about sixteen families in little ol’ Somerton. I actually think that they’re full of it. But they are mildly wealthy, still, and extremely caring.

They didn’t want to seem too nonchalant  about sending their sweet little Rosaline off to a foreign country, so they therefore spread the word of me getting into a ‘marvelous school for talented children’, despite my small-town-girl background and my parents’ past, and then boasted about employing one of the best in the children-escorting-and-babysitting business.

Frankly, I didn’t see what was so good about Sierra. She wouldn’t shut up the whole way to Austria, and, because she’d decided to stop and flirt with one of the guards at the baggage check, which resulted in us missing our flight to Italy, where I was supposed to meet up with some friends.

It didn’t help matters that most of the subjects she spoke of consisted of sentences such as, Does this hair style make my face look fat? Do I look like a horse in this dress? And, my personal favorite, oh, dear, should I help you get your makeup ready? You look a sight!

My answers to all of those questions would be, yes, that hairstyle does make your face look quite a bit pudgy, you look like a horse in every dress you wear, and SO HELP ME GOD IF YOU TOUCH MY FACE I WILL MURDER YOU.  

But I’m too polite to say anything like that, and I’ve learned from a young age that if there are arrogant people about, humor them.

Recently I’ve gotten tired of that, and that’s why I was so happy to be going to a school with people who I actually like.

I know what I sound like; the mean-on-the-inside rich girl who could care less about her less popular classmates, and, after throwing a hissy fit to her over-doting parents, is transferred abroad to a prep school. But that’s not who I am. Sure, I may think some things that I shouldn’t about my fellow students, and I am a rich girl with parents who would do anything to give me a good life,  but that’s not the direction I look to.

While Father wants me to be a lawyer, or just marry wealthily and become a house-wife (does anyone see the sort of fairy-tale feel to this?) I want to be a soldier. For the Army, or join the Marines. Anything in the military. I don’t go by Rosaline, if I can help it, and prefer ‘Sniper’.

I don’t wear that preppy stuff that you see in the movies.

But I’m not your typical wealthy rebel, either. I just want to help my country, help people, see the world - have some adventure. That’s why I’m so glad to be getting to go to school with my friends from Movellas.

I was extremely excited to be able to see the people I’ve conversed with, roleplayed with. I could just imagine how they’d look….

Sierra knocked me out my thoughts. “Rosaline, dear-”


She bit her lip. “Sniper, I believe that that person over there - see, the one holding the sign? - I believe he’s here for you.”

I shot a glance at the man standing in the corner, holding up a sign with a white m on a light blue background. Ah ha! Movellas. Maybe Sierra was right about something for once. But at the same time, I gritted my teeth, eyeing him cautiously. Just because someone was holding up a sign that indicated that he came from my website-turned-school, did not mean that he actually from there.

Afterall, this story had been everywhere. Sure, there were schools devoted to writing, but this school really hit the news hard, being that it was only there because of a famous author, and it was made up entirely of fangirls and fanboys, as well as ‘crazy’ writers and artists.

That had never been done before. It was huge.

Paparazzi and criminals disguised as Movellas employees could very well lure us kids in. So I analysed him before heading over towards the sign, my lips forming a straight line as Sierra tagged along, following me as though she was a duckling, and me, her mother. She was almost as helpless as a duckling, too, having eyes only for her compact mirror and lipstick.

“Are you here for the Movellas School of Writing, Reading, and Art?” the man asked lamely, voice gruff and bored-sounding. I nodded, slowly, studying his clothing for signs that he may hold a weapon or some rope to tie me up with. But, he obviously had nothing in his pockets, and, honestly, if he was a criminal or reporter, I had a feeling that he would’ve been a bit more endearing.

“Yes, I’m here for M.S.,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Sniper Kirkl-”

“Look, kid,” he grumbled, “I’m not here to be your friend. I’m not even from the school, I just work at this blasted, underpaying airport. Just follow me to the stupid bus, so I can go home.”


A/N: I would’ve made this chapter longer, but I’m tired, and I thought that the ending was quite proper. Can’t wait to write the next chapter! :-)



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