1. Visit 2. Watch the video.
3. Find a friend 4. Visit 5. Watch the video with your friend.
6. Repeat steps 1-5.
"Chalk." Remy Lebeau read the word from the printed sheet before him. He scanned the sheet in an attempt to understand the hurriedly typed, hot pink, overly large font that Jean had used while creating and printing out a so-called study guide for helping Angel.
"Gotcha," she said, scribbling something onto the paper before her and then focusing her attention back on the computer monitor. Images flashed back and forth across the computer screen as the sound of voices, singing voices, at that, blaring through the speakers. "Next word."
"It might help to turn the television off, cherie," he told her then skimmed one finger down the list. He stopped on the twelth word down then read it aloud, giving the English term. "Student, both forms."
Angel didn't blink or look away from the monitor's screen. Her attention had barely pulled itself away from the screen for more than a few minutes in the entire hour and a half since he'd begun the third day of their tutoring sessions. It was almost impossible to decipher the shapes that had been dancing on the screen for the length of that time, though it appeared to be a single videoclip playing, repetitively.
"Turn the television off, cherie."
"You're not much fun, Remy," she said but lowered the volume, leaving the image to play on the screen. She focused on her paper again then looked up. "What was the last word?"
Remy sighed. "Student, both forms."
There was silence for fifteen minutes while she finished writing down the French terms for the English words he'd been giving her. The test was of twenty different words or phrases and checking to see what she actually knew from class or what things she'd paid attention to. Remy had administered the test twice and both times had showed that she'd forgotten the majority of what was taught in the class; he attributed that to the checks she'd seen that the French teacher, Margolian, often paid her to stay out of class.
"Here you go, Remy," she said with feigned sweetness as she passed over the paper. It had barely left her hand when she adjusted the volume on the computer screen back into it's previous position. Angel, herself, had leaned back in a chair with her arms behind her head and eyes focused on the monitor before her.
For the first time, he began to make out words in it while going over the test to see which were wrong and which were right. So far, she'd gotten the first half of the test correct.
The speakers on the computer blasted with the words coming from the flashing images on the glowing screen. "Badger, badger, badger, badger, badger, badger." It was rare to hear the pattern change except for, "Mushroom, mushroom, mushroom" and the occassional sound of something about a snake. The very sound was beginning to grate on his nerves.
"Why don't we turn that off right now, cherie? You appear to have improved on your French skills..." The words trailed off when he noticed the last seven answers weren't even written in French but another language. He stared at them a moment before tilting first his head then the paper to study the words. "What language are these last ones?"
"Spanish, I think," came the distracted response from the seveteen-year-old who had her attention completly focused on the computer screen, repeating the words along with the voice filtering from the speakers.
"This is your last warning, Angel. Turn it off. NOW."
His words were ignored as was his prescence and the threat behind the words.
I hate teenagers. They're so hard-headed, Remy thought then removed a deck of cards from one pocket. His hands moved through the motions of shuffling without really paying any attention to them except to select several cards from the deck. He gave the card a small amount of charge then flicked it toward the computer screen and it's captivated audience of one.
Angel shrieked and jumped back, barely avoiding falling over the table where her backpack and his junk were laid out. The computer screen shot a tiny sparks for a moment as the screen went inward then there was silence. She glared at him, hard.
"What was that for?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him.
Remy shrugged. "I told you to turn it off. You didn't listen, cherie... and why did you write the last set of answers in Spanish? We're studying French, the language of love, not Spanish, the language of fugitives," was his answer despite his never looking up from comparing her test with the study guide beside him. "I can see you haven't learned much of anything, right? Is there anything you know in French, for sure?"
She nodded. "Faux amis," she told him before sticking her tongue out. She didn't even wait for his reaction but dug through her backpack until she came up with a Rubic Cube that must have been at least six inches on each side. Her attention settled upon the object as she began to untwist and twist it, in an attempt to return the cube to it's correct shape. "And I know how to say you suck in French but Margolian doesn't know that..."
"Oh, you do..?"
Angel told him in a politest voice imaginable, using the French language with perfect enunciation and the right amount of cheerfulness to be aggravating. "How was that, Rems?" she asked, sweetly. Her attention remained focused on the rubics cube as she pointedly gave it a couple more twists that did nothing helpful.
"What happened to not knowin' French, cherie?" Remy asked, handing back her paper that had several answers crossed out along with the corrections that were required for the words to be French and accurate in one she was supposed to write.
"I never said I didn't know French. Everyone assumes that I don't know French because I don't excel in the subject like the rest of the students, but then again... I can speak and write French to an extent." Her words were matter-of-fact and had lost their distracted edge that normally permenated her words. She sighed and stared up at the ceiling, leaning back in her chair. "Are we done? I have things to do.."
"Such as..?"
"I'm sure you have something to do. What about Rogue? I bet you two have plans for today," she said in the same matter-of-fact, undistracted tone of voice that grated his nerves. She chipped at the peeling paint on her nails with a yawn and something mumbled that didn't quite reach his ears. "I just know that the relationship counselors helped your relationship as they helped the rest of us."
Remy blinked at her, shoving the study guide and other items he'd removed, including the cards, into the pockets of his trenchcoat. "Those two actually fixed your relationship with that fool..?"
She shook her head. "Nope, but what harm did lying ever do? If you've seen Julius' hand, you know we haven't really solved our problems. I threw a book at him yesterday and his hand took the impact of it especially since it was a dictionary," she said as though that answered everything. It probably did between those two but then again, Rogue wasn't exactly the nicest or best behaved female either.
Remy shook his head. "And you threw the dictionary at this homme because..?" he asked, standing and slipping his trenchcoat back on. He adjusted the jacket until it fit his shoulders properly then dropped down to cover his wrist and black gloves, several fingers missing from each hand.
"It doesn't matter. Julius deserves everything that I've ever done to him," Angel repeated for the second time since they'd begun getting together on a regular basis for her tutoring. She shouldered her bag and shoved the work they'd done into a notebook before slipping it into the bag, too. "What goes around comes around, Remy."
"Of course, cherie. Ever heard the phrase 'Lie down with dogs and you'll get up with fleas'?" Remy walked with her through the halls and out of the school, lighting a cigarette when they reached the front doors. He placed the end between his lips and sucked on it until the tip glowed orange then faded into gray ashes; he blew the curling smoke over their head.
"Every day that Aunt Kristal's alive. Where do you people get these little quotes and things? I mean, there's that thing about people unable to yell fire in a crowded theater and..." She continued to talk about different quotes and such that her aunt or friends often repeated toward her but Remy stopped listening.
His mind had gone back to what plans he could coax Rogue into tonight. He'd just have to add the right amount of pressure, maybe even get Kurt involved with the process, and she'd have to agree or risk him causing a scene that wouldn't be forgotten for days.
Rogue always gave in now rather than cause scenes.
Remy blew another curling cloud of smoke into the sky. "Do you ever shut up, ange?" he asked, using the French term for angel rather than calling her by her name. It seemed more natural and didn't seem quite the contradiction that angel represented; there was no way she'd ever be mistaken for an angel or even someone quiet.
"Sometimes. Can I have a cigarette, Rems?" she asked, a few moments had passed with her simply watching him smoking. She seemed intrigued but also focused on putting something into her bag, though her attention shifted at his staring. "What? Am I not allowed to smoke..?"
"You're too young." He offered the pack anyway, shaking one cigarette out than holding out his lighter. She waved it away in favor of the neon pink lighter she'd removed from inside one of her jacket pockets, flicking the flame up and lighting the end; the smoke came out in a slow breathe that swirled the smoke. "You're entirely too young..."
"How old were you when you started smoking?" Angel asked after a minute of smoking in silence. She held the cigarette and placed it into her mouth with such ease that it almost made Remy question her about it but changed his mind.
"Twelve."
"Ha. I didn't start until a couple months after my sixteenth birthday," she informed him in a pleased voice, sucking on the end that was held between her lips, turning slightly blue from the lipstick caked across her mouth. She held the cigarette between two nails, black painted with a couple of hot pink stripes down each one.
"And what's your point, cherie?" he asked.
"The point is that you were addicted before I even knew what a cigarette was."
There was the honk of a horn then Angel flicked the cigarette onto the ground and stepped it out with the toe of her shoe. She adjusted the strap of her bag then kissed Remy on the cheek before hurrying down the steps. "That's Julius! Later, Rems. Catch you tomorrow," she called back before scurrying across Bayville's astroturf and to the waiting motorcycle.
Remy watched their conversation for a minute, noting her hand gestures and the movements of Julius' head. It appeared the two were having a problem but within moments, it was over. She'd climbed onto the bike behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist; the bag had been slung over so that it's strap went over one shoulder and around her neck, hanging down. The move appeared both hazardous and hard to maintain.
"Young people today. They all a lost cause," he said himself before flicking his cigarette into the nearby grass. He crushed it beneathe the toe of his combat boots before heading toward the faculty parking lot where he'd parked his bike, though there was no guarantee that it would still be there. Another thanks he could offer Rogue later, if it wasn't.
Sure enough, his bike was missing from it's spot.
"Mon dieu, cherie!" Remy yelled at the lot then started to walk. It wouldn't take that long especially if he could convince someone to pull over and offer a ride.
Oh, the joys of hitchiking.
There was rain falling and Damien was on the verge of canceling their extra credit work. It was almost impossible to work on anything for woodshop while locked in the small out building that had been converted upon the announcement of Damien's teaching area.
Tara Toynbee glared at the rain falling outside the plate glass window and turned back to Damien. "I need to make-up for my sorry grades in your class, Damien. There's nothing we can do to earn the extra credit?" she demanded, using 'we' to encompass Russ who had begun playing with something in one of the closets. She was trying to ignore him and his mumbled words which was becoming increasingly difficult.
Damien shook his head. "Tara, it's time to accept the fact that you're not good at everything and deal with your D."
She shook her head in a way that made the short, green streaked strands of hair hit her in face, though none of this phased her. "I need to pass, Damien! Either help me earn a passing grade or I'll...I'll tell Katherine and Xavier that you pay the other students not to show up..."
"Go ahead. There's no proof especially not with Angel, though there's always those products she turns in from time to time even though none are made of wood," he said, adding the last part as more an afterthough than anything else.
Russ' voice echoed from out of the closet. "Hey, look! It's a robot..." His words faded out of hearing only to be replaced by the whirring, buzzing sounds of the robot before him.
I'm going to kill him before we even get anywhere close to getting the extra credit that we both need so much, Tara thought with a glare in the direction of him. Instead of Russ appearing, a small metallic robot with vibrant orange eyes and what appeared to a stick of some sort that had been covered in duct table until it was antena shaped. How can one person cause so much aggravation? I mean, he's more annoying than Angel sometimes...
"The robot survived after all these years?" Damien questioned, crouching to pick up the small robot that had begun walking in circles around one of table legs, propped inside a bright green tennis ball. He held it inside the palm of one hand then pressed an area beneathe one of it's stubby, metal arms which felt hot.
The robot went still.
Damien smiled. "It survived all these years."
"If you're this concerned about a stupid, little robot, imagine how you'll act if we were to dredge up one of your old girlfriend's..." Tara smirked at the mental image the words represented. She almost asked for the name of or a list of his old girlfriends' then thought better of it and held her tongue. "Extra credit, Damien? Yes or no?"
"Yes." Damien walked around behind his desk and rummaged through the catch-all drawer of his desk with a frown. His hand reappeared, clutching a sheet of white coper paper that had been photocopied from another copy, after a moment. "Since you and Russ are both flunking, you can work together..."
Something crashed inside the closet and she groaned. "Damien..."
He shook his head. "No. Either you and Russ work on this together and succeed or you'll both flunk this class and have to take it again. Comprende, Tara?" he asked with his hand clutching the paper extended toward her. The paper vanished inside his large hand, covered in scars and wood shavings from the class.
"Comprende," Tara agreed after a moment then took the parchment as a group of forks clatter from down the hall and into the room. It was chased, moments later, by Russ' tall form, though he hardly looked the part of an 18-year-old computer genius. "What exactly is it?"
"The flyer explains it all, but the condensed version is that it's a competition for robot fighting in an underground system and open to anyone from ninth grade through the first four years of University or college. In order to pass this class, without flunking and performing something illegal, you'll have to create a robot, compete in the competition, and make at least the Nationals." Damien outlined the competition for them both once Russ had gathered up his forks and dumped them into the purple, drawstring pouch bag that never seemed to leave his side.
The bag was embelished with the word Corona and a crown plus swirling tinsel that had all been done in gold. It was once the container of some form of alcohol, though it would take a genius to figure out what had once been in there. Russ had started carrying the bah around in their eigth grade year but had since begun adding new items, including marbles and clothespins at some points.
Tara took the flyer and stared at it, hard, calculating if it was worth the amount of time spent with Russ or having to compete in the competition, possibly cheat. It would be worth it to keep her perfect record on grades and win Valedictorian in the next year, though her friends and others made it sound as though she'd already won the honor.
"What's that?" Russ asked, coming up behind her and reading the paper over one shoulder. His dark gaze scanned the page before them both then returned to his little, purple cloth bag that dangled from his hand by it's gold tassles. "Is this our great extra credit work, Damien..?"
"Yep. Are you guys gonna do it or not, Tara? Sign-up deadline is in three days, five hours, and thirty-seven minutes..."
Tara hesitated then answered for them both. "We'll do it..."
"Do what?" Damien asked, wanting to hear the words from her own mouth rather than just a mumbled admittance.
"....we'll join the robot competition."