Survival Of The Fittest

(( I apologize for not being active and the writing quality of my posts becoming increasingly lesser- health issues.)(

Tim Tavares slumped further into his chair, grumbling incoherently. Something strange was bothering him, even more than usual. Being pissed was not unfamiliar. Bitterness was common ground. So on and so on.

Something Tim had noticed though, it had always been directed outward. Someone or some institution would draw his ire on a regular basis, but it was taking a significantly longer timeframe for him to remember the last time he had been so angry at himself.

Maybe angry wasn't the right word. Besides, Tim reasoned, his mother had always said count your blessings.

I am blessed with food stamps. People starved, buildings crumbled, children died, civilizations fell to ruin in favor or globalization and all Tim could do was sit in a French class listening to what he figured had been a spirited argument about Cat-people in French. Or something. 

He snuck a glance to his classmates. Aidan Flynn he somewhat recognized- well, Tim recognized his music more. The girl, Reagan, was pretty well-to-do if he remembered right, but he had barely seen either of them around Seattle.

On the other hand, I don't see many 
people to begin with on my side of town.

"Just because your girlfriend's coming doesn't mean you get mic privileges."

Poverty probably across the street and we're pissed about what, concert recitals?

Tavares' face darkened, though more upset with himself than anybody else. He had barely spoken to these people. Besides, it wasn't their fault America was so fucked.

As Monsieur Leonard continued on whatever bilingual tangent he had latched on to at the immediate moment, Tim considered trying to go back to sleep until the period ended.

"Just because your girlfriend's coming doesn't mean you get mic privileges."

Regan almost had to remind herself to act natural. Almost. But she didn't, because the whole 'hiding her sexuality and secret relationship' thing wasn't new. She already knew she had to act natural, and that didn't have to remind herself of that. It was just one of those things. Like, don't try to walk through a closed door, or wait for the car to stop moving before getting out. The point was, she'd been playing the double life card for long enough now that she knew the routine. Part of that routine was not to act like a spaz if anyone made a joke about Ruby being her girlfriend. Granted, that didn't really come up that often. And when it did, it was mostly because, to the outside observer, ruby was her best friend. Which wasn't untrue, but, you know. Girlfriend, too.

All the same, she could perhaps leverage Aidan's comment into holding the mic for at least one song. Regan didn't have flashes of non-musical inspiration often, but this might have been one of them. Her mind already working in the devious manner of something, eh, devious, Regan considered her options. Anger at Aidan's insinuation? Sorrow that he didn't think she was straight? What angle would work the guilt card the best? Regan wasn't exactly what you'd call manipulative, so her end decision would probably be the mental equivalent of flipping a coin. Her options all looked pretty much interchangeable to her. What about feigned indignation? Or was that the same as anger? Maybe disbelief? Question mark?

"See, that's not cool. You owe me at least one song for that comment. At least. Possibly more. Probably more. But at least one." She shook her head in disappointment. "My girlfriend. Not cool."

Ha, it was a little funny, in a way. Well, sort of funny. Funny in that it was an off-hand comment and not something he'd seriously considered probably. But a little funny. Ironic, was what it was. Historical irony, if she wasn't mistaken. Because her apparent history of, at best, disinterest in women. But, see, it was ironic because she really was into women. See? Irony. But historic irony, because her history...okay, joke made, moving on.

Of course, Aidan probably didn't have any idea regarding what team she actually played for. As...eccentric as she might be, that was one area of her life she played close to the vest.

Her mind briefly darted back to what they would play at practice. As musically diverse the tastes of the band went, they'd find some common ground. Foo Fighters, probably. Not so much that everyone agreed, but because Regan could be really loud/insistent/irritating when she felt it was called for. Hawke liked metal, Aidan liked pop-ish stuff (At least, that was what Regan classified it as), and [[Maybe Naomi? TBD]] liked playing whatever. So it was really up to Regan to champion straight-up rock music. Unless you counted Hawke's stuff, which she only sort of did. Anyway, that was a possible argument for later. Right now, Aidan needed convincing that she was clearly the best choice for a female singer in the band.

By this point, Aidan looked like he'd gone back to scribbling in his notebook. Which, for him, was probably for the best. Regan had already sort of but not really gotten him in trouble once this class. She made a loud 'pssst' noise, something shed seen in a movie once. The teacher on screen hadn't responded, so she assumed it was some magical sound beyond their range of hearing. Like a dog whistle, except opposite, and for people. When she made the same 'pssssssssst' sound again, She, belatedly, realized Monsieur Leonard was staring right at them. Well her.

"Quitter." Regan was already gathering her things. Monsieur Leonard was a forgiving guy, but she'd obviously pushed too far for one class. Well, lesson learned. Try not to disturb class quite so much. Got it. She slung her bag over one shoulder and her guitar over the other, carefully leaning across the desk to recover it first. She crossed the classroom and swiftly made her exit, pausing in the doorway to hold up one finger to Aidan. "One song." And, then, like some mysterious magician, she was gone, the only thing missing a puff of smoke.  

((Regan Flagg, continued in Life is like a broken record))

Tim's hopes had been raised when he saw Regan leaving the room, only for him to be disappointed when no, class wasn't over. Maybe it was. He didn't think about looking at the clock. It'd be over soon enough- patience is a virtue.

Patience is a girl I need to forget.

French class had never been a class Tim had looked forward to, but it wasn't something he particularly dreaded, either. In a vacuum, it was a time sink revolving around a language he had never had any interest in learning, but it was slightly better than learning Latin- a dead language in itself. Vietnamese had no relevancy to him, and neither did Mandarin, though he did suspect that he'd be learning it soon enough. Soon enough these fat fucks in the banks are going to get assimilated by fat fucks in the banks from China or something.

Spanish was an interesting possibility, considering his mother's side of the family- the only side of the family that really mattered - was Peruvian, but he had never been especially close to his relatives. They either lived too far away for him to really care, or simply didn't like him. It'd probably make his mom happy- though Tim doubted there was an opportunity to change his foreign language course now. Surely, however, Spanish could not be as effective a cure for insomnia that French class provided.

Of course, the best cure for insomnia was to get a lot of sleep.

Oh, well look at that. Regan went and got herself booted out of class. That was interesting, sort of. How long is it until class ends, anyway?

Darren automatically brought his left wrist up to view his watch. He then instantly remembered, once he saw the bare patch of skin between his hand and the sleeve of his dark grey sweater, that he'd left his watch on his desk back at home. Oh damn you, memory.

That was pretty pathetic; he could recall nearly every single station on the Paris Metro, but he still managed to leave home without his flipping watch. He would've checked the time on his cellphone, but he doubted Monsieur Leonard would take kindly to him whipping it out in class (oh geez that sounded terrible). Following Regan out the door before lesson's end wasn't on Darren's to-do-list.

Then again, continuing to do more artwork in a French class would probably lead to him being kicked out anyway, so Darren stopped and went back (reluctantly) to writing down notes, hoping the class would end soon. And hoping it would snow soon as well. A quick glance out of the window-

Hey! Stop it and pay! Attention!

"See, that's not cool. You owe me at least one song for that comment. At least. Possibly more. Probably more. But at least one. My girlfriend. Not cool."

Aidan rolled his eyes and returned to his frantic sort-of-note-taking, deciding to completely ignore the inevitable fact that he was going to give in. He was strong in some ways, maybe, but definitely not in keeping-things-cute-girls-want-away-from-cute-girls ways. Did that make any sense? That probably didn't make any sense. He heard Regan making noises of the "pay attention to me" variety, but he didn't see any point in obliging her. The class would be over pretty soon (he assumed? he wasn't good at keeping track of time, there wasn't a clock in the room, his cellphone was dead, which was liable to cause issues in planning later), they could talk when Monsieur Leonard wasn't staring them down. As he clearly was, at this moment.  He considered telling Regan off ("telling off" here meant "make some obvious head gestures in a teacherly direction", but he figured she wasn't dense enough to keep on-

Oh wait, yes she was.

He watched as Monsieur Leonard finally made clear that he'd had enough, with little more than a facial expression, and he heard Regan packing her things behind him. Serves her right, he mentally grumbled. He loved her and all (not like that definitely not like that shut up brain), but she was really really good at getting him in trouble. He got in trouble enough as it was. Even though he tried so hard to slip under the-

"One song."

Aidan rolled his eyes at Regan's dramatic parting gesture, turning back to the front of the room to see Monsieur Leonard looking right at him.

"Et vous, Aidan?"

Aidan blinked.

"Et vous...quoi?"

"Et vous, allez-vous pour être tranquille? Arrêtez de faire un fou de vous-même, peut-être?"

It took him a while to sort through all of that and come out on the other end with a vague understanding of what had been said and a response that wouldn't get him in trouble while simultaneously not letting anyone know he gave a shit.

"Oui, Monsieur. Pas de bêtise. Ou que ce soit."

Monsieur Leonard narrowed his eyes.

"Retourner au travail, Aidan."

Aidan nodded and went back to taking notes, sorta. Hey, he was pretty good at this French thing! Occasionally!

Darren continued to scribble down on the pad of paper, looking occasionally up at Monsieur Leonard as he spoke, but quickly ducked his head down whenever the teacher threatened to make eye contact with him. Darren knew that the second their eyes locked, a question would be heading right his way.

He scanned over the page of notes, making sure that his writing was legible enough for him to refer back to for his homework. He leant on his left arm, tapping his chin with his index finger as his eyes fell on a word that resembled shorthand more than anything. After a few seconds of deliberating, he crossed it and wrote in a clearer version while it was still fresh in his memory. Better, anything else I need to do?

Then, mercifully, the bell rang to signal the end of class. Aw yeah, lesson's over. Darren started to pack his work and stationery up, but paused just as Monsieur Leonard spoke.

"Attendez un peu. Pour votre devoirs, je voudrais que vous fassiez les exercises sur page trente-quatre dans votre livres. C'est tout, alors, bonne journée et à bientôt."

Damn homework, hoped he'd forget today, ah well. Darren quickly jotted down the page he needed to do the exercises from, packed his stuff away in his rucksack and headed out the door, saying a quick "au revoir" to Monsieur Leonard as he left.

((Darren Fox continued in Par Course))

"C'est tout, alors, bonne journée et à bientôt."

Yeah, whatever. Tim had made up his mind about French Class- it was in itself useless. Greed transcended language-people in France were probably just as more likely to be as corrupt as the people in power on home turf. All it was doing was preparing him to be "bilingual", as is the trendy thing to do. You're more likely to get hired if you speak more than one language.

Fuck that. He didn't want to be hired and work for a system he didn't believe in. For a brief moment, he visualized himself- hair cut, piercings gone, long sleeved and wearing a tie- a fucking tie! - sitting somewhere in a cubicle, and it made him want to puke. Learning Spanish might be something just to appease his mother, who he liked- but aside from that, he really had no interest in French- not the language itself, but what it surely represented in his future.

Rising to his feet and grabbing his beloved messenger bag, the torn up one he had gotten on his trip to Portland to get his first ink-Tim ran a hand through his hair, an expression of apathy across his face. Before exiting the room, he turned on his heel, making enough of a squeak from his Converse's soles to earn Monsieur Leonard's expression of disapproval. Snorting, Tavares glanced at the remaining student in the room.

"Hey, you're in a band, right?" He inquired to Aidan. Then, not bothering for an answer: "Never get big. Trust me, the money won't be worth it."

With that, the young man left the room.

[[Tim Tavares continued elsewhere, hopefully I don't write him as terribly as i did this thread ;n;]]

[[OOC: Been trying for weeks to think of a good post to end with, and I can't, so I'll just]]

[[Aidan Flynn continued in Passing Slowly Through the Vector]]

[[TOPIC CLOSED]]