Room 666 was massive, divided off into numerous mini-kitchens which served as workstations for two people. Heero and Wufei were assigned to the cubicle nearest the front, seeing as they were a couple of the very few males snared into Home Ec. Class, and were now impatiently waiting for their teacher to show up. What in the world could be keeping her, anyway? She was almost fifteen minutes late! Wufei snorted irritably to himself, mumbling about the injustice about having to wait on a weak woman. Heero, surprisingly, wasn't so much pissed as he was confused. Even after seeing all the cooking utensils and unlit stoves surrounding him, he'd still somehow managed to avoid putting two and two together, and figure out that Home Economics was just a fancy name for cooking. As Heero studied all the shiny instruments and unlit fires, an idea suddenly occurred to him. The former terrorist brightened considerably, as he decided that this must be a class about making homemade bombs.

A good fifteen minutes later, the doors to the classroom finally slammed open, and a tall, middle-aged woman who looked much younger than her years tottered into the room on thin spiked heels. Her poofy red hair and air of cheap perfume instantly made Wufei shudder. It made Heero confused, when he realized that his bomb instructor was what appeared to be a housewife, before he considered the idea that this was all just a very clever disguise. A very clever disguise, indeed, Heero decided, as he watched the red-haired teacher take a lazy puff of the cigarette in her hand.
"Hi, kids," the teacher called out brightly. "I'm Mrs. Bundy, and I will be your teacher for this...this...whatever this class is supposed to be."
A short black kid with plaid pants pulled up to his nipples by red suspenders and huge wire-rimmed glasses called out smartly, "It's called Home Economics, Mrs. Bundy. You're supposed to teach us how to cook and clean."
Mrs. Bundy looked appalled by the very thought of doing just that. A funny, tense smile guiltily crossed her features, as she tee heed out, "Well, we'll just see about that."


Meanwhile, way over in Room 3.00, Trowa was seated stiffly in his seat, waiting for the Speech and Drama teacher to make his dramatic entrance. The students lounging around the room were chattering animatedly, apparently none strangers to either speech or drama, gesturing energetically while they spoke. They reminded Trowa of Duo...a room full of male and female versions of Duo. Long-haired and short-haired, pale-skinned and dark-skinned, blonde and brunette, tall and short...Yeah. If he just squinted one eye a little, and left the one underneath his massive shock of bronze-colored bangs alone, Trowa mused, all of his classmates would look just like Duo--even the girls.

Just then, the lights of the room snapped off with a start, plunging the entire classroom in darkness. As the students murmured out their protests, heavy metal music started playing, and the distinctive silhouette of a person could be seen, outlined in the doorframe. The figure turned around as the music continued to play, and the lights went back on. Despite having half his face covered by his hair, Trowa's vision was still perfectly fine, and with that perfectly fine vision the former pilot of Heavyarms could see a rugged, muscular man in his late twenties, with long, dark blonde hair and a scrag of a beard, wearing an open silver shirt over very, very shiny black pants. However, Trowa was Trowa and not Duo, and thus did not get distracted by the shiny object. Instead, he turned his attention to the muscular blonde teacher of Speech and Drama as said teacher turned off the little handheld tape recorder which had dramatically played his entrance music, and whipped out a microphone from behind his back.
"All right, juniors, welcome to Speech and Drama is Jericho!" he began in an arrogant voice that just sounded plain mean to Trowa's ears. "My name is Mr. Jericho, and if you little assclowns would please SHUT THE HELL UP, then I can get this Speech and Drama course started, right here, right now, in the middle of this ring--I mean, classroom!"
Trowa blinked. It was going to be a long--not to mention both insulting and noisy--class that lied ahead of him.


On the east side of Infinity Academy where the Health and Family Life classrooms were located, Duo Maxwell was bouncing around in his seat like a hyperactive, braided howler monkey, nearly pulling his hair out in anticipation as he eagerly awaited for Sex Education to start. Much to the American ex-pilot's disappointment, however, the man who would be teaching Sex Ed. apparently wasn't planning on coming out anytime soon, as Duo glanced impatiently at his watch and frowned, noticing that after thirty seconds it would mark the forty-fifth minute anniversary of his Sex Ed. teacher and the bathroom.

Finally, Duo heard a loud flushing sound, and the teacher came out with a newspaper tucked under one arm, an average-looking, somewhat stooped middle-aged man with thinning dark brown hair. Duo's hand almost instinctively went to his nose, as he noted with displeasure that his Sex Ed. teacher reeked. And extreme foot odor was a major turn-off for pretty much everyone--and that included Duo. Either way, foot odor and reek-ness, Duo was going to have to cope with that, as his teacher introduced himself.
"All right, class," he began, as he started walking down the aisles and handing down bananas to all the students. "My name is Mr. Bundy, and for some reason I'll never understand, I'll be your Sex Education teacher for the next one-hundred-and-seventy-nine days."
A hand shot up.
"What is it?" Mr. Bundy asked irritably, continuing to hand out bananas.
"Yeah, Mr. Bundy? My name's Duo, Duo Maxwell," Duo began. "I was just wondering...will you just be teaching us about sex, or will you be bringing in special guests to demonstrate how it's done?"
Mr. Bundy looked at his extroverted student as if he were nuts, before shrugging and muttering, "How should I know; I always try to avoid doing it whenever I can."
"But surely you must teach us about something--" Duo persisted. Mr. Bundy placed down a banana on his desk.
"Actually, I will," he murmured, and headed off to the front of the classroom. Duo, meanwhile, had failed to hear what he'd said, as he peered at the banana greedily. Yum, he thought to himself, I haven't had a classroom snack since I was just a little bitty Shinigami in kindergarten!

While Duo peeled open the banana, Mr. Bundy took out a small paper packet, but before he could do anything, a very familiar called out innocently, "But Mr. Bundy, what will we need moist towelettes for?", taking notice of said paper packet. Mr. Bundy again gave Duo that What-are-you-crazy? look, before shrugging it off and turning to face the class.
"Now," he began, tearing open the little paper packet with the 'moist towelette' in it and holding up the stick of banana, "The way you put on a--"
Mr. Bundy was promptly interrupted by loud chomping sounds, as he and the rest of the class turned around as one to see Duo greedily finishing off his banana. The braided American must have sensed something was up, because he looked innocently at all the staring eyes fixed on him. Cheeks stuffed with mushed bananas, Duo mumbled through a mouthful of banana paste, "What? What did I do?"
Mr. Bundy wearily raked a hand through his thin brown hair.
"Well apparently, you've just eaten the chance you've got at populating the Earth with little Duos," he muttered grumpily.


Toward the center of the school lied the Gym, which had just been remodeled earlier that year, and which now housed a class of youths clad in ash gray sweatshirts over white Infinity T-shirts and matching sweatpants. Quatre sat in the middle of the group, tensely plucking at his tacky gray sweatpants and waiting for the coach of the wrestling team to arrive. Unlike his unluckier fellow G-boys, however, the blonde Arabian didn't have to wait for long, as the wrestling coach promptly made his grand appearance inside the gym as soon as the bell rang. He was a muscular, dark-haired man in his early thirties, with sky-blue eyes and a goofy smile on his face. Decked out in a navy-blue Olympic sweatsuit and with an array of gold medals hanging proudly around his neck, the wrestling teacher chirped brightly, "Hi! My name's Coach Angle, and I'm going to be teaching you how to wrestle! It's true, it's true"

Quatre watched his wrestling coach nervously, but for the moment Coach Angle appeared perfectly content to just talk.
"And before any of you say anything," the coach was rambling, "No, wrestling isn't just grown men in their underwear faking punches at each other. That's professional wrestling, anyway. What I'm going to be teaching you is amateur wrestling, and believe me, it won't include flying all over the ring and hitting each other with steel chairs. Oh, it's true, it's true..."
Quatre sighed. Make that rant endlessly, he silently corrected himself, as he fought to keep from tuning out Coach Angle's words.
"Now, as you may all have noticed, I am wearing genuine gold medals around my neck," the coach was saying. "One of these is an Olympic gold medal I won in freestyle wrestling about five years ago. It's true, it's true. It was a tough job, but with my three I's--Intensity, Integrity, and Intelligence--I managed to make my dreams come true and become an Olympic champion. And it wasn't easy to do. Oh, no, I had to wrestle all over the world to get more practice. In fact, there was this one time when I flew to Russia..."

Fifty Minutes Later...

"...And that is how I won my Olympic gold medal, despite my broken neck, it's true, it's true." Coach Angle finally seemed to have finished his rant. He then glanced around at his trainees--most of which had fallen asleep or were on the verge of doing so. Irritated, the coach blew sharply on his whistle, waking up all of his pupils.
"All right, boys," he began. "Let's begin your first day of wrestling!"
Quatre got up, somewhat at ease. Despite his tendency to ramble, Coach Angle had come off as a rather nice, somewhat naive man, and he didn't feel quite as intimidated as he did at the beginning of the class.
"Now, I want your first wrestling experience to be the same as that of my overwhelming Olympic medal victory," Coach Angle was saying. He then suddenly whipped out a sledgehammer, and pointed at Quatre and another boy. "Why don't you two come on up here so that I can break both your necks and you can begin wrestling each other for this fake gold medal?"