Bonnibel did not believe in God in any of his many forms. Theological arguments did not sway her the slightest- complexity is comprised of simplicity afterall, and no being who staked claims of love would endure and advocate the suffering of an entire ecosystem (loath as she was to say it, she was a scientist afterall). But it was hard to deny the echoes of spirituality, of wholeness and existence that catalysed her chemistry on occasion. And on these occasions, she'd breath in recycled air and she could swear, she could pledge it with such certainty that the concept of gravity itself was reduced to a mere perhaps, that she could feel the essence of all life, of the living and of the already lived.

Only once could she say this for certain, only once had the numinous for her become an actuality. Usually, though, she was plagued merely by stirrings of doubt and semi-belief. She was stirred by the definition of cells beneath a microscope, she was swayed by the flickering of strength to be seen in the trembling legs of the biology majors' newborn wards, and something inside her was sparked by music.

She liked rock and she liked techno but she didn't exactly have a taste, per se. One of the beauties in music, she was once told, is that no matter how you strive to label and contain it, it still flows between barriers. This was very much true; not only can definitions be difficult, but there are few people who do not appreciate music at its core. Bonnibel was lucky enough to have- no, really it was a had- two people in her life who experimented with pitch and tone to evoke feelings so utterly genuine that the rest seemed a farce.

Finn considered himself a DJ. He could assemble beats and pulse the likes of which never failed to raise a smile. For him, it was only a trivial occupation, something to subsidise his heavy course fees (who knew something so fundamental as engineering could be so expensive?) but to those who gyrated to his music late into the night, it was an art.

Both Florence and Bonnibel appreciated his skills for what they really were and pushed him to apply for evenings at the local club. At first, the proprietor had been sceptical- "He's new, he's fresh, where's the allure in that?"- and they had to push their friend's case- "Can't you see it? He's fresh, that's the whole point, isn't it?"- until he was eventually accepted, but "Only for one night, okay?". But now, he was a regular and would tend to the dancefloor once a week ("I won't do any more than that," he'd protested, "Fair enough, it pays decent, but I need to finish university as well.") That once a week served as Bonnibel's ideal excuse. Well aware of her friend's thoughts about her lifestyle, she would visit Finn's nights with the intentions of 'supporting' him. The other two would be there as well, of course, but since they could criticise with their eyes rather than their ears, they didn't much mind.

Bonnibel didn't mind much either- the two were usually too busy acting like lovesick puppies to pay any heed to her.

So come Saturday night, and she was up to the usual. First point of call was the bar, and after exchanging a cursory wink and nudge with the bartender and thinking of Jun for the shortest of moments, she swiveled around and surveyed the dancefloor. Threaded through the other young adults who lived in the area, Bonnibel could spot a couple of people from university. One would think English majors had nothing better to do than lounge around their dorms with a mound of books, five mugs of steaming coffee and some classical music, but the majority of the people rubbing up against one another were studying literature. Close second came the engineering and technology students, and then human sciences. The music geeks were surprisingly few and far between- their classier tastes pushed them towards the edgy bars and bistros, where they no doubt indulged in berets (not even ironically) and bud.

She sipped at her Sex on the Beach- oh god, the name- pretending to be unaware of the guy eyeing her up three seats down. Thing with guys was they took everything as an invitation, and a single swipe of their eyes could change everything. Under his leer, the low-cut crochet dress that usually made her feel like a goddess transformed her into little more than a piece of meat. She adjusted her hold on the glass slightly so that her middle finger stuck higher up, but he didn't seem to get the message, not until the girl he'd arrived with sidled up beside him. He gave her ass a welcoming squeeze and Bonnibel felt oddly queasy.

"The scumbag," came a voice to her right, husky but sweet even so.

She turned her head to acknowledge the owner- her skin was tanned and rough beneath her make-up, her brown hair artistically tousled and, spellbindingly, one eye was verdant green while the other a mottled brown (heterochromia, she recalled, though she had never seen the condition herself)- who smiled an endearing crooked smile as soon as their eyes met. She was admittedly attractive, and something inside Bonnibel stirred as soon as the corners of that mouth flickered up. She was unused to the sensation, hadn't felt that way in a while, and was caught with her words freezing in her throat.

"I tend to not bother with guys for the very same reason," the girl announced, her words both brazen and curious. And then, abruptly, she hid behind her hair and averted her mismatched eyes, "Umm, I, that wasn't..."

"That's fine," she smiled. And just as suddenly as the girl had shied away, she was filled with a startling bravery and inched closer, hand meeting hand and breath meeting cheek, "I don't mind. I get that too."

She grinned, her eyes finding Bonnibel's and sparkling, the green a little more than the brown, "Oh thank god. People I think are lesbians are always straight and the lesbians I think are single are always taken."

"I'm Bonnibel by the way, definitely a lesbian, definitely single," she laughed, despite something in the depths of her mind screaming no, she fucking wasn't. She was hardly romantically unattached, considering the ties that still brought her time and time again to the first girl she'd ever kissed. Surely feeling like that relationship still counted towards being taken just as much taken as an actual, physical girlfriend by her side? But she ignored the depths of her mind- she didn't come out to think, for god's sake- and carried on laughing.

"Penelope. That's a rather cute name you've got there."

"Fuck you," she said, although the mirth in her voice near-obscured the expletive.

And when Penelope laughed, she thought that maybe, at last, she was moving on.


If Bonnibel had thought yesterday's breakfast to be surprising, she was in for a huge shock when she went downstairs. True to form, Marceline was the one presenting said surprise, but this time, she had an accomplice.

Lucy Smith-Parker, shallow bitch extraordinaire.

Marceline took a moment from listening to the heiress whine to nod at her, but Bonnibel strode straight past, uncertain whether to take the invite. As much as the raven-haired girl fascinated and intrigued her, the brunette did the exact opposite. The two made an odd pair- one with her matted hair shaved close and an old band tee hanging off her bony shoulders, the other had an immaculate coiffure even this early in the morning and her shirt relied more on her chest than her collarbones- but they were both pretty involved in the conversation by the looks of things.

Tray of fruit in hand, she tried looking for Ricardio but only found him as he walked out the door. Since she didn't know the others well, she only had one remaining option. Sullenly, she sat down beside Lucy- neither of them greeted her- and speared a piece of melon. Marceline noticed her violence and raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Fruit are good for you, Bonnibel, don't know why you're so pissed."

"Bad night," she grumbled.

"Story of my life," Marceline sighed, lifting a glass of cranberry juice to her lips, her neck somehow distracting as she swallowed. She put the glass down wiped her mouth with the back of her hand to get rid of the moisture, "And Smith's too, apparently. You sure you weren't high?"

"Eww no, I think I'd know if I'd got something so bad in my system."

"Hmm, I don't tend to get dreams that lucid unless I'm tripping balls."

Lucy made a face and whirled her spoon around her bowl, her muesli mostly untouched, "You're like, totally wild, Marceline. You know that, right? Mummy was like you once and she isn't even like completely over it all yet. Not to mention her hair's taking all the punishment."

"This," she half-whispered, half-pouted, running her hand through the stubble on the left side of her head, "Is down to the drugs, y'see? Wasn't shaved, it just all fell out."

Bonnibel snorted, "What, did you inject the stuff through your eyes?"

"Only way to get properly high"

"You're insane," Lucy said, and she found herself agreeing.

Marceline looked at them both for a long moment as if insulted, before rolling her eyes and leaning back in her chair. She opened her mouth lazily, only the corners seeming to react to the pull of her muscles, "Y'all don't think I'm serious, do you? I'm just bloody joshing with you, I've never taken drugs. Don't know why you'd think that of me, those are pretty low expectations that you've got. I mean, I could always branch out, if you guys need connections, supplies..."

Bonnibel looked at her scornfully and though Marceline noticed, she only laughed, "Looks like the science geek has her knickers in a twist."

"Hmm. When did you get so cocky?"

"And when did you get so prudish?"

"Bad night," she grumbled once more, only half meaning it.

"Must've been awful huh, sweetcheeks?" she smirked, leaning forward to pilfer something off of Bonnibel's plate. She popped a blueberry past her lips and winked, ever so slyly, when she noticed that the redhead's cheeks were, in a sense, 'sweetening' at the comment, "So what was it? Restless night, nightmare or kinky dream?"

"Piss off."

"As long as you didn't piss the bed, it hardly matters," Lucy shrugged.

"That applies to the both of you, thanks."

Lucy obliged, but only because Melissa, her partner for the project, beckoned her over. With a winning smile, she slid her bowl of muesli onto Bonnibel's tray, and traipsed off towards the open door. Bonnibel watched her retreating figure, then at the food that she was now supposed to handle and sighed mournfully. Marceline pulled out the chair beside her and slid into the seat, now directly opposite. She rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward, dark eyes piercing, "I think it's more than a bad night that's got you feeling so uptight."

"Let me guess, you've got something to help me relax."

She eased out a lecherous smile, "If you're into that kind of thing."

"You're a pervert."

"Hey, you were the one who fucking suggested it, sorry for making a joke."

Bonnibel skewered a slice of apple and stuffed it into her mouth, working the oversized piece around her jaw with considerable discomfort as she looked at the girl opposite. There was a little hostility in her gaze that some people would have misinterpreted as a glare, "So Lucy, huh?"

"Yeah. Why?"

She swallowed her mouthful and frowned at the obviousness of the answer, "She's a bitch."

"Well I'm sorry I didn't take your opinions into account before talking to the chick," her forearms flopped onto the surface of the table and she spread her fingers, her manner almost business-like, as if consoling a client, "Look. I was just sitting down, eating breakfast, all alone. She comes up to me and she's like, fuck, you know what, I'm going to sit down and talk to you, and in return I'm like, fuck, sure, go ahead, I haven't got anything against you. So she sits down and we talk for a while. Definitely not a bitch. Vapid, shallow; yeah, I'll give you those, no argument. That means she's a diva, but hardly a bitch," then she shrugged, "But I don't know, perhaps some people think being approached is some huge dick move."

She ignored the shallow snide, "Well, you're not her roommate."

"Let me guess, she spilled some varnish on your bedspread and now you're throwing a hissy."

She had, in fact, but Bonnibel was hardly going to admit to that. She stared down at her plate, careful not to blush or react in any other way, "I don't know. She's just not shown herself to be the most friendly of people. Kind of treats me like a... I guess kind of like some Neanderthal. Can't stand to look at me half the time, ignores my privacy entirely, flings out casual digs at my body and my hair..."

"Your hair?"

"Yeah and-"

"But your hair's gorgeous."

Bonnibel apparently didn't notice the softening of her eyes- less Schiele now, more Botticelli- and shook her head, "I guess she just doesn't like me, and perhaps I'm the only exception to that. Either way, she's a bitch to me at the very least. Guess I drew lucky this time, huh?"

"Hmm."

"You're a great consolation, thanks," she said, sarcasm steeping her speech.

"The very best," she got up, took both their trays in hand, "Now, what d'you say; think I could distract you with some hardcore planning?"

She smiled begrudgingly, "Alright. I'll try not to enjoy myself too much."


Bill Wizard, as well as being one of the most ridiculed teachers on campus due to a combination of the name and the long ginger beard, was very much your stereotypical Business Studies professor; highly educated in Microsoft PowerPoint's special effects, a big fan of minimalist design and Steve Job's autobiography (which he had read through six times, and was very proud of) and not at all impressed with any of the other 'studies' courses.

"They're not real qualifications," he would insist, pretending to converse with the class when actually holding Marceline's stare, "Art Studies [she didn't bother correcting him, there was little difference anyhow] is just an excuse to flog your dog to some half-naked Raphaelites [she didn't try to explain those were the people and not the artworks] and then pretend you've done some decent study with your time instead. If I were to teach you all one thing, it's that there are few people as unworthy of your time than Art Studies students, except perhaps those who take it as an extra subject to replace the hours in which they could be focusing on more important pursuits. Anyone taking AS should expect some well-deserved flack from me."

Marceline was the only student taking both Business and Culture, and hence the only one he could possibly be aiming his sermons at. Yet it still transpired that she was one of his pet students, not so much for her talents but for her position. He would smile at her as if he held her secrets and announce, "If there is one person on this planet more noteworthy than Jobs himself- a true yardstick of quality, to use his words- it would surely be our own Hunson Abadeer. A revolutionary businessman, and not just for his technologies."

Marceline couldn't fucking stand Bill Wizard about 85% of the time, which was when he delivered either of these two monologues (and this was certainly not a profitable demographic, he should understand that more than anyone).

Sometimes, she'd sit in class and stare at the ceiling and wonder why every teacher couldn't be like Simon. How wonderful that would be; the easy banter, the open assignments, the lazy timetable. And not to seem shallow or otherwise judgmental but he was a lot easier on the eyes than the whiny neckbeard before her. But really, the dealbreaker was that Simon had no interest in laying a single sweaty, overzealous finger on her father. In fact, he had no sweaty, zealous fingers to speak off, not even for his cultural hobbies.

She was aware of how badly she reflected upon her Business Studies teacher. However, it was pretty hard to hold someone in high esteem when everything they did seemed to be an attempt to piss you off.

In some hare-brained, half-cocked scheme, Bill Wizard had phoned up her father and proposed he make a visit to campus, and on some ill-judged whim, her father had accepted. Two years ago she would've protested violently, fought with every fibre of her body that hated Hunson Abadeer (and there were a lot of fibres that did so, most were employed for the sole purpose of not being able to stand him). Go back a year ago and she would've whined and moaned about the decision and just generally been unbearable. But her rocky relationship with her father had healed somewhat, she could actually stomach the thought of following in his footsteps and sometimes they even conversed over the dinnertable. Even so, she still didn't take kindly to the proposal.

Three days. Come Tuesday, and she would have to listen to a lecture she'd endured a hundred times. This time, it would be directed to more than just her, but it wouldn't mean much to anyone more than just her. If anything else, the audience would only add to the pressure. It occurred to her, as it often did, that she and LSP, despite their vastly differing opinions, were the same. Both of them had their futures restricted by a father who saw nothing more to life than his business plan.

Listening to Bill Wizard, there were sometimes moments when she wondered why the fuck she'd bothered with Culture Studies. In the pegbox of Hunson Abadeer's enterprise, it was like she was trying to squeeze the subject into holes that were cut for the prisms he'd imagined for her. The resounding futility of it all made her want to drop the subject entirely.

But if her father wanted prisms, Simon Petrikov wanted spheres. There were no facets or vertices to his way of thinking, no points to be connected. She wanted to experience at least some of that for herself before she had the other properties carved into her.


A/N: I was reading back over the rest to see where I had left off (I'd honestly forgotten) and where I could continue this, and I noticed that in basically every chapter Bonnibel's like 'I know I'm a scientist, but yolo, amirite?" So the opening line was birthed from this particular idiosyncrasy, and the whole thing kind of went from there. Be prepared for more scientific confliction in future.

In comparison, Marceline's part is rather short and not many plot points going down. There will be chapters where one part of the story does seem to lag, but that'll probably be because the others have important developments and the like (or maybe that's just an excuse, I'm not so good at storyboarding etc). Even so, everyone has days in which not much happens, and since this fic explores a teeny part of a single day in each chapter, I guess it can't promise much in terms of wild pacing.

Mathematical analogies are weird and I probably hang out with my brother too often.

Penelope is the darling Raggedy Princess and is so OOC I might cry. Bill Wizard is just Wizard Bill, which is not obvious and lazy at all. He is mostly irrelevant and no one much cares about him.

Eyy, this took a while. I'll pretend to give a damn. Surprisingly almost, I have a pretty concrete idea where the next part's going to take the plot. Doesn't mean I'll get round to writing it though ;)