Every student jumped at the sound of the bell. Though there had been many different varieties of bells as there were of those who heard them, they all shared the same instinct built up from previous years of school. Even with the time passed since coming to Beacon, that same instinct coursed through each one: to escape and take another step in the daily grind of school til the glorious afternoon-evening time when each teenager could do what they wanted. Unfortunately, that time lay five long periods away. Before any of the students could flee through the door to Combat class, the now-familiar voice of Ms. Goodwitch commanded their attention yet again. “Today you've shown me what you can do now. Tomorrow will bring something new. Nurse your wounds, if you have them, and bring every ounce of your strength tomorrow.” With that, Ms. Goodwitch fixed to turn back and talk with her assistant, but she happened to catch the mischievous eyes of Paron. “Don't you have anything better to do than follow the freshmen around, waiting to offer them one one of your deals, Mr. Skaft?” Her tone was critical, but in low; this was a conversation between her and Paron alone, now that most of the students were on their way out. “Not 'til fourth period, marm,” the well-dressed northerner replied. “PE creds an' all that. An' wotever makes ya tink I'm tryin' ta swindle anyone?” He got up, very dignified, and tucked the golden-threaded yoyo away before meandering to the door. “I swear, no trus' these days for any a us. Teachas gotta trust their students, or they end up alone?” Paron cast a final glance at Goodwitch as he passed through the exit. This one held no warmth, no mischievous cheer; it was a clouded, soulful glare. Goodwitch turned away, walking slowly toward Sarina. The next group of teams, including PHGM, CRDL, RWBY, and JNPR, were filing in, but her thoughts weren't on them. [i]It wasn't trust,[/i] she thought, [i]that left you alone.[/i] Sad images flashed in her mind—the smiling face of Paron, then his crushed, vacant expression, the sabre, the blood, the hate. [i]It was bad luck.[/i] -=-=- Next stop for MODA, SASG, RPGD, SIII, GJMM, and JRVR was math. After quickly ascertaining that all were heading to the same classroom, the twenty-four students merged into a singular flow of teenagers in the direction of room 64. When they sidled through the doorway and found their seats, there was no teacher to be seen. Judging by the papers and posters tacked, taped, stapled, and otherwise attached to every inch of available wall-space, though, he had certainly made his presence known. The symbols, equations, rules, factoids, and more that floated off the colorful menagerie of wall-adornments were enough to make anyone's head spin, and that was before the professor arrived. The instructor burst through the door, his half-closed duffel bag hanging from his hip. His matchless white and orange attire practically illuminated his progress through the room, and with a bang he set the duffel bag on the huge desk at the lecture hall's central low point. Yellow eyes twinkling, he whipped out a piece of chalk from a drawer and scrawled on the antiquated chalkboard in a loopy, difficult hand: ALGERNON HENRY FULLBUSTER. And just like that, he was in his seat, studying the students briefly. “Math!” He suddenly announced, followed by a yawn that he struggled to suppress. For a few moments thereafter, he didn't move, but a snore announced that he had suddenly put himself to sleep. Fortunately, the bell that signified the end of passing time and the start of second period jolted him awake. “Math,” he repeated, unfazed by his catnap. “Algebra, geometry, trigonometry, calculus. Not as exciting as some of the stuff you'll be prodding and blowing up in Grimm Studies, but nevertheless essential! You all can, by now, multiply and divide and calculate percentages and remainders and compounded interest, but do you have what it takes to judge the arc of your spear as you're poised to throw it? Can you take the function of how far something's moving, get how fast it's moving, and then use that to find how quickly it's accelerating? No?” Fullbuster shoved a stack of packets to the end of his desk and motioned for the students to take one each. “Then let's get started.” -=-=- “History is important, ladies and gentlemen!” The green-haired man declared. Compared to the soporific, smooth, low tones proliferated by professor Fullbuster, Bartholomew Oobleck brought both a vivacity and energy to the class with movement so fast as to be unnerving. His words were, though still hyped, mercifully slower. Regardless, it was clear that the doctor's passion lay in his subject. “If you can't learn from it, you are doomed to repeat it!” He zipped across the room again, until he was standing practically touching the long desk of the two students nearest him, Daniel and Priscilla. “And by tomorrow I hope the remaining half of you will learn that you must bring your book to class with you! Every day! The knowledge that we seek lies buried in paper, and starting tomorrow we will start to dig. Today, especially since we are so textbook-devoid, we will be running through a series of slideshows in review, to jog from your laden memories the information you undoubtedly acquired and then forgot in previous school. Pay close attention, now! History is waiting to unfold!” -=-=- Lunch in the cafeteria today was a choice between chicken sandwiches, bowtie pasta with somewhat watery red sauce, and a salad bar. Optional sides includes small dishes of pears, apple slices, grapes, mashed potato, curly fries, and macaroni, while to drink there was white milk, water, and juices of apple, grape, and watermelon. While the lines were serve-it-yourself, an employee waited at the end of each bar to charge each student for his or her purchase, and to keep an eye out for both theft and general rowdiness. The only seating available was an array of gray double-tables, each capable of seating eight. Spirits, not yet crushed by homework, were mostly high.