Code Lyoko: Souille
By. Tate Icasa
An: The word souille is actually spelled with an accent aigu above the letter 'e', which points to the right. However, I can't figure out how to make that appeaer, so please, bear with me. Please, remember that this story takes place twenty years after the final battle. It is based off the second season, unlike most of my CL stories. I will be writing a prequel/companion piece encompassing that battle, so most of the flashbacks taking place throught the story will appear there as well.
Also, all the times are a rough estimate of the starting time of the scene, not the actual time, just when Tanya arrives there.
6:30am
Aelita Stones slammed her palm down on her students desk. The girl, seventeen years old, glanced up and blew a bubble.
"Tanya Souille!" She snapped.
The bubble popped, but Tanya seemed unfazed. "Miss Stones." She acknowledged.
"Can't you at least pretend to be paying attention?" She asked with forced calm.
Tanya blew another bubble and leaned back in her seat.
"But I already know this stuff."
"I said pretend." Aelita hissed.
Tanya shrugged, and Aelita rubbed her temple.
9:30am
Jeremie Belpois turned his chair to rest his hands on his delk. He tapped his fingers lightly across the touchpad.
"Sir?" A female voice responded almost instantly.
"Ms. Souille, today's schedule is late."
"I sent simon up with it ten minutes ago, sir."
"Well, when he gets back to you, tell him he's fired. Transfer one of the boys in from England to replace him, there are enough of them over there."
"Yes, sir."
"Good girl. Your shift ends at three?"
"Yes, sir."
There was a knock on the door and he keyed the door to open, cutting off the intercom system. He turned his attention to the numbers scrolling across the screen.
A tiny pad, the days schedule, landed on the corner of his desk. He picked it up without looking away from the screen.
3:30pm
Odd Della Robbia was a very rich man, Tanya knew. But his house would have led her to believe anything but. It was a small house, and sparsely decorated, at least what she'd seen of it, which, granted, wasn't much.
Each day she was led to a small study. The movie producer would speak and she would record it as if it were a letter, though he never said who it was to. She assumed it was more of a journal than a letter, but whatever.
He paid her generously for it, but he never spoke to her. He didn't know her name, because she never spoke to him either. She did her job, took the money and left, her photographic memory recording the letter perfectly for her to recall later.
She liked to study him as he spoke, mostly in a sad, quiet voice, and his eyes told her more than his words. At least, more of what she wanted to know. When he finished speaking, his eyes would take on a hardened, almost frightening look before he turned away.
9:00pm
Ulrich Stern closed the door quietly and turned to face her.
The girl was almost twenty years his juniour, but she was his each night, six days a week. For a price, of course, but a cheaper one that most.
Sometimes, they sat and talked. But mostly they fucked. A lot.
He did pay her extra to stay away from certain topics. Like a picture of five children, in a frame on a desk behind a small red book.
Sometimes, when he was low on money, or when he thought of a certain black-haired girl, or when he was sober for more than a day, he would close his eyes a desperately wish that he didn't need her so badly.