9:40am, English Coridoor
My slave sits next to me, making strange noises as I write - trying to avoid the pencil sharpenings strewn across the table. There is a bright yellow clothes peg attached to the back of my headscarf, for what reason? I am not sure. The word “porn” breaks into my writing bubble but I dismiss it with a quick disapproving look to my slave.
“Now, should I draw her in underwear or...” I sigh. I pause to discuss the sketchy lines on Skunk’s paper, forming the framework for another mildly suggestive manga panel. Her work has been getting better and better since I first saw it. Or maybe I’m just paying more attention.
Sub-Zero’s the only one on our l-shaped table who’s actually doing any work - I’m not even sure what we’re supposed to be doing. Skunk starts up a monotone hum, which shakes as it ends before being reborn as another hum in a higher note. She seems to be planning to do this for as long as she can. It is forming a tune. She is engrossed in it, her pencil still. And then she’s writing, finally starting on her work. I decide to do the same.
Needless to say, I fail. The boredom is too much. There are seven minutes of the lesson left and I can see that the heat, along with the proximity of a notebook and pen will incapacitate my concentration enough that I will get no work done. Skunk throws a piece of paper down on the table, sending the aforementioned sharpenings flying in my direction. I take a break to brush them off the surface area of the table reserved for my elbow.
Sub-Zero looks over and snaps: “Skunk, what are you drawing?!” It’s another sketchy design - guidelines for a ore steam panel of manga.
“It’s not what it looks like!” protests Skunk. I look at Sub-Zero’s doubtful face and know we are both thinking the same thing.
“It’s probably worse.” she says.
