You're Going to be a Pain (Request to Join; Duke & Duchess - E)

Timestamp:
May 20th/Present Day
0733
Users: Duchess of Dementia & Duke of Mania
Characters: Marc & Bentley

---------------------------------------------------------------

Jesus H, why did I sign up for summer classes? The teenager had asked that question more times than he could count anymore. It had nothing to do with the hours --- no, season training had him up earlier and down later than this ever could --- but it was merely because of the fact that he was taking time out of his summer for it. Then again, most students were working during the summer, so getting extra work was difficult. He might as well take classes when others weren't and follow the same method with work. Of course, he'd been telling himself that since he'd started signing up for classes, and it hadn't really changed all that much, despite the fact that he'd been here for what, four, five years, maybe? Regardless, it was just another day to drone on, full-time student over the summer months, baseball on weekends, and work during basically every remaining waking hour.

The buzzing in his pocket alerted him to the knowledge that his mother was awake and had dropped his sister off at the sitter's. Checking the flip phone confirmed the knowledge, and he sent back a quick message to let her know that he received hers and was already at the school. His first class wasn't until eight, and he knew exactly where it was, but it wasn't exactly going to hurt him to be there early. Besides, who know who he would find, today? A glance at the orange weapon tag on his shirt made him grunt in annoyance, reminding him that five years had done him little good with maintaining a partner. Of course, it didn't help that he tended to shock them in his annoyance...

Bentley stood silent, forehead pressed to the cold tile as the now-lukewarm water ran off him in steady streams. Hands fumbled to wipe the sleep that remained from his eyes, the product of an early greeting from his alarm clock which now sat in pieces on the floor. How he had convinced himself to take summer courses, he'd never know. Oh, right. You need a partner, he reminded himself. A meister without a weapon wasn't going to be defending anyone, at least not for long. Sighing, he stepped out, towel in hand and hastily dried himself off. It would be fairly standard of him to be late to the first day of class, but today seemed the day to lean into a new habit. Shaking his hair loose, he quickly pulled the clothes strewn about his bed on. Clean clothes can be next week's habit.

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Bentley shot a quick look at himself in the mirror, if only to make sure his hair was properly disheveled. His eyes flickered to the photograph framed at his bedside. Two adults and two children smiled back at him, oblivious to their own mortality and the tragedies that would befall them. Of the four, only Bentley and his sister, Sofia, had survived the fire that had torn their home to ashes. This is why we're here, he reminded himself. We're here to protect her...to protect everyone. Pulling a pair of black headphones snugly over his ears, Bentley stepped into the cool morning air, his eyes looking to the red spires of the DWMA in the distance. Setting the music to shuffle, he burst into a run, eager for once, to see what the day had in store for him...

Roughly twenty to thirty minutes to burn, and the boy wasn't entirely sure what to do with it. So, instead of idling on it, he set about wandering the empty front courtyard. With his eyes closed, he slowly transformed his arm, phasing it from the elbow down. The majority of the sleeve seemed to disappear as the chain extended from flesh, dropping towards the ground where its mace end nearly hit. He smirked slowly, winding his arm up as if to pitch before flinging it out, striking at the air and pulling back in a manner similar to a whip. It was not a perfect gesture by any means, but his actions made it rather apparent that he was most definitely not an amateur, not a new student. There was talent, there, raw and unbridled but effective and efficient.

Climbing the steps hastily, Bentley rummaged through his bag, pulling a watch free from the clutter and squinting to make out the numbers through the glare. Early. That was a new habit, to be sure. The top of the steps melded seamlessly into a path that wove through the DWMA courtyard, vacant except for a lone boy whom Bentley didn't recognise. Tall, lean, with jet black hair that hinted red in the sun, he stood alone amidst the courtyard gardens. Even as he watched, the boy's arm dropped, his clenched fist melding into a mace connected to his shoulder via a thick chain. Rolling his shoulder back, he whipped the chain forward with ferocity, carrying the mace in a wide arc. A weapon, huh? Well, I suppose if bondage isn't your thing, then he is your worst ni- The words caught in Bentley's mind as he realised the boy was now staring at him through eyes so piercingly blue that they seemed to look right through him. Even as he straightened himself, his chain melding back into human form, his eyes never wavered. Bentley shook his hair over his eyes, his steps quickening to match the heat flushing his face. Just your luck, buddy. A coincidence of timing and he has you running scared. Let's just get to class. Perhaps this will be your lucky day to make a friend or, better yet, a partner.

The younger boy stepped forward, rubbing his shoulder idly, seemingly more out of habit than necessity. His eyes stared, not quite cold, but piercing and curious, impartial and objective. "Meister?" He asked, noticing the shock of blue, upside down, on his "uniform," the academy's way of dividing up unpaired meisters and weapons in the school. Smiling, he held out his right hand, shifting his shoulder to keep his bag balanced properly. "Marc." There was a no-nonsense hint to his tone, but a patience and tolerance behind his eyes that was bewildering and shocking in comparison. He may not know who this boy was, but he was either remarkably late or remarkably early, on top of having summer classes --- either very behind or trying to get ahead. Waging on the brighter side, the weapon thought it best to learn rather than assume. Besides, this student seemed older, and likely skilled. If he wasn't partnered, it might just give Marc a chance.

Bentley swept the hair from his face, his brief silence cracking into an uneasy laugh. "Hopeful meister, yeah. All I'm missing is a weapon, though I suppose that's like a painter saying they're 'just' missing their brush." A smirk creased his lips at his own humour, entirely common in his everyday musings. "I'm Bentley," he said, gripping Marc's hand with the firmness his father had once reminded him was crucial in first meetings. Even as the handshake held, he could not break the quiet, almost curious gaze of Marc's icy blue eyes. Don't be intimidated. He's just another student and he's a weapon. Pull your boots up, Picasso, and go find your paintbrush.

"An artist?" He asked, assessing the grip more as learned than natural but shaking the hand nonetheless. "Are you one of those indie punk crackpots?" A slight smirk broke across the edges of his face, but he maintained far more control than the other one appeared capable of. Asking more questions would be rude, all at once, so instead, he merely nodded towards the school and began walking forward, expecting him to follow along.

Bentley broke into a paced stride to keep up with Marc's loose March. "Not entirely, no," he sighed. "I'm missing the angst to be punk and the obscurity to be indie. Crackpot is a safe bet, though the words usually used are less polite." His eyes traced the cracks in the stone was they walked, shaking his head and hoping that Marc took it as him clearing the hair from his face and not a vain attempt to drain the heat from his face. Stop it, he told himself. He's toying with you. Now make like Mozart and compose yourself. Bentley waved a hand dismissively, gesturing pointedly at Marc's dress slacks and shirt, adorned with a tie that hung loosely beneath the collar. "And what of you? Who's the man behind the business casual attire?"

Macarcius looked back at him with a bit of a raised brow, smirking just slightly at his observation of the conspicuous. "Fifth year weapon, unpartnered, kurasagama, baseball player." He looked over, brow slightly raised, still, eyes dancing in amusement. His steps were deliberate and yet almost flighty, as though he could turn tail and be gone in a split second with or without notice. Still, when he turned, there was no warning for it as he lead them down a hallway to the right. "Now, why are you without a weapon, crackpot?"

Bentley's brow furrowed slightly at the question, jamming his hands into his pockets. "My past potential partnerships have tended to end prematurely," he admitted. "Most find me to be...what were the words? Irritating. Eccentric. Prone to improper joking." He shrugged, absentmindedly pulling a pen from his pocket. "In any sense, it was mutual disdain. I could never find success working with such prudes," he shot, a slightly defensive air to his voice. Feeling the heat collecting in his cheeks, he promptly began spinning the pen between his fingers, welcoming the distraction as he followed in Marc's tow.

Marc nodded, though his first instinct was telling him that it was rightfully best to go ahead and back away, now; such reasons as those he had listed were why Marc had refused partnership in the past. Still, it seemed as though Bentley wasn't exactly apologetic, but wasn't necessarily proud of the turnout, either. There couldn't be much harm in maintaining a semblance of friendship, at the least. "If they can't keep up, you might as well kick them out, right?" He offered a slight, crooked smile at the older boy, trying to reassure him that there was no need to go on the offensive, or even defensive, at the present moment. "What's your schedule look like, then?"

Bentley pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his sweatshirt pocket, unfolding it as he squinted to make out the scrawled writing. "It looks like I have Weapons Training firstly, followed by history and gym. My last class is on soul resonance and, with any luck, I'll leave with a partner." He scanned the sheet numerous times, smirking. "I must have forgot to pack my gym clothes, not that it matters much. I can outrun most all of them even in jeans," he mused.

"They provide the track clothes," Marc said, shrugging, running through his own schedule in his head. "Which history? I have gym and soul resonance the same hours." A bit of a snort followed at the mention of the soul resonance course; they had tried pairing him for years, but the good partners either didn't want him or weren't equipped to handle him. Those that had shown interest had no idea what to do with a kusarigama, or were simply too foolish to take anything seriously, anyway. The amateurs irritated him the most, younger students that were too thrilled with their abilities and wrapped up in their own worlds to care about the reality around them. There was, of course, nothing that he could do about such things, but the fact remained nonetheless.

"I suppose soul resonance will be fun for us both," Bentley mused, a smirk breaking across his face. "For all you know, you'll get paired with a basket case." He laughed nervously, the pen still twirling flippantly between fingers. In any case, Bentley needed to worry about his own pairing before he worried about Marc's. Three years had served little purpose beyond reminding him of the cesspool his sister lived in while he was away training. Three years and nothing to show for it, he thought to himself. Blinking back misted eyes, he shook his hair over them, his jaw clenched. Today will be different. It has to be.

Marc groaned instantly, shrugging as he turned onto the corridor of the summer courses, "That tends to be my luck, actually." He tried to shake it off, forcing a somewhat nervous chuckle, but there was very little that could truly be done about it at this point. What's happened has happened, and what's been said has been said, "Better than a crackpot, I hope." Though his tone was still teasing, an alarm blared in his head, Nice going, Macurius.

Bentley laughed in spite of himself, running a hand through his grayed hair bashfully. "Through and through. I pity the poor soul who gets paired with me, unless they're larger than me. In that case, I'll have to cut back on my jokes, lest the crackpot become the broken pot." He smirked, internally rolling at his own amusement. Spinning his pen one last time, he tucked it behind his ear, his hands slipping back into his pockets. "I suppose this is my stop," he said, coming to a halt in front of the Weapons Training hall. "See you in gym and resonance training, then?"

"Looks like it," Marc said, throwing a thumb up and continuing further down the hallway to his own classroom.

Of course, the next couple of hours went by in a rather predictable manner. Marc, as per usual, was merely bored out of his mind, tape recorder on his desk on the off chance that he cared to review the lesson later, hand working on automatic as he idly jotted down notes. Both classes went this way; neither the weapon practice course nor the soul categorization course (AP level 2, thank you very much) held any decent amount of his interest.

Lunch, however, seemed more than satisfactory enough, and though he didn't exactly zip out of the classroom, he still somehow managed to beat the entire rest of his lunch period to the cafeteria. Being the first one there had several benefits ---- namely, that there was no one there to steal or question his chili and alfredo dog.

Bentley shuffled, bleary-eyes and unfocused, towards the cafeteria. Given that the first day of Weapons Training was entirely theory rather than practice, he had opted to sleep through the first day of it, admittedly groggy after the fact. Fumbling for a tray, he slid into line, his eyes scanning the room for any familiar faces. "I'll have a-," he began before a fish-burger topped with queso was dropped on his plate. It was exactly what he wanted, of course, but he hadn't gotten used to the fact that the DWMA offered nearly every food you could imagine and the lunch workers seemed to know what you wanted before you said it. Spotting Marc, he slipped to the wall, easing around before dropping the tray beside him. "Aha!" he smirked, settling beside him. "Did I scare you? I've been likened to a panther before on account of my stealth and ferocity, y'know?"

Marc's eyes drifted towards the meister as he held the last third of his hotdog, hovering just outside his mouth. With a slight, not quite defeated, sigh, he set it down, shaking his head and smirking ever so slightly at the boy. "A panther, Bentley? And who on Earth calls you that?" The teasing tone had remained, though he held a level of disinterest in favor of his food, biting down on Parmesan and Cajun fries.

"Myself, mostly. Confidence is key," he quipped, biting into his burger with ravenous effort. Napping had done little for his well-being aside from inciting his appetite and even he could spare a few minutes of silence for the sake of food. He paused between bites, mouth still full of fish. "Are you worried at all?" he murmured, posing the question as much for himself as for Marc. "About the resonance testing, I mean."

"Why would I be?" Marc asked, shrugging, "They can only fail us for not resonating with someone that we match with." A slow, easy smirk appeared on his face around his straw as he sucked up lemon water. The gesture was followed up with nothing more than a wink, but he shrugged soon afterward, masking the entire situation well enough that Bentley might just question whether or not it even happened. "They'll pair up a few students, maybe leaving some to choose for themselves. Almost like assigned seating." Popping another fry into his mouth, he shrugged again. "Are you nervous, Bentley?"

Before Marc had even finished the question, the answer had caught in Bentley's throat. He eyed the floor, the silence speaking where he couldn't. "I suppose so, yes," he murmured, eyes following the patterns in the floor as he quietly took another bite. "A meister without a weapon is a painter without a brush. In the end, they're just someone with a plan and no means to further it...and I have big plans." A trickle of warmth alerted him to the fact that he was gripping his sandwich so hard that the queso was running down his hand. Cursing under his breath, he wiped the runoff away, pulling a smile back on before turning back to Marc. "Worst comes to worst, the artist can finger paint, I suppose. He'll be no Picasso, but it's something."

"You'd be amazed how much people will pay for elephants' paintings," it wasn't much of a reassurance, but it was something, "Imagine what you could do when you have more coordination than an elephant holding a brush in it's trunk." He continued to eat, seeming rather idle and at ease despite the topic at hand, "C'mon, crackpot, don't stop the jokes, now! You're far less interesting without them."

Bentley shot him a scowl, furthering the mess of queso on his plate. "Admittedly, my assets are few and far bewteen," he sighed, a hint of sarcasm laced in his voice. "Perhaps I'll raid your closet so that 'fashion sense' can go on the list as well. I'd hate to bore you on my first day." He grinned slightly, craning his neck to survey the students seated around them. "I suppose we should start looking at potential candidates, yeah?"

"Most likely," he said, passing the other boy a napkin, eyes skimming around them, "I can't say much for the weapons, but most of the good meisters are taken, I know." A shrug followed and he took to finishing the last bite of his hotdog. Getting it down, he nodded to a couple of the other students, "Hyper-active katana twins, though I think they've been matched... There are a couple of armor pieces, though that only does you so much good in combat..." He shrugged once more, making a sort of awkward, crooked expression, "Most unpaired students are in the NOT program."