Bricks and arched ceilings make this room feel utilitarian, much like the other rooms of the old fort. The math faculty has done little to detract from that feeling. The windows on the outer wall open up over the ocean and a view of Paragon Island about a mile away from the school. This gives something for the slacker and day dreamers to be distracted with. Two whitebaords are used, one at the front of the class and one at the back. The other wall has a few open light tables, that can be used for group mathematics projects. A few shelves with math tools also line the walls. The floor is barren concrete.
It's late. But Nevada can't sleep, and his usual sorts of late night shenanigans aren't keeping his vast, sprawling mind occupied. The great part about living in the same building as the classrooms is that access is fairly easy, and in the darkness of the hub outside a jarring shaft of industrial lighting cuts across the floor. Inside, the great bull leans against a black-surfaced work table, tapping his muzzle thoughtfully with the butt of a whiteboard marker with one hand, his other arm folded across his chest. He's in a tank top and a pair of shorts, barefoot and looking more or less straight from bed, one knee bent to tuck his heel below the work-table, toes poised flexed against tile, his other leg outstretched to offer him some counterbalance as he stares over a series of calculations he's penned on a whiteboard.
Since coming to this school, Whitley has spent many late nights catching up. Apparently, the private education provided by his father did not cover everything. However, he is determined not to fail all his classes. So when he stumbles upon a difficult math problem, his first instinct is to ask, especially after he found out that he would not be chastised for doing so. Even at this late hour, he finds his way into the math class only to find there is no teacher present. He grumbles, quite loudly, and rubs his eyes. Spinning on his heels, he almost leaves but spots the huge teen bull…And he just watches, standing there, with a contemplative look across his youthful features.
Nevada hasn't needed time to catch up in the least. In fact, he was only placed as a Junior for the sake of his social development and to give him time to train and hone his powers. Intellectually he's far past done with most of the stuff actually being taught here, and tonight he's wending hard through the theoretical and obscure corridors of mathematical knowledge, just letting his wild mind wander and occasionally shifting forward to render another line of a proof in a speculative, easy fashion, not stressing over it, but simply letting it come to him, thoroughly zoned out, his long ears hanging back along the sides of his head in a relaxed manner before one of them rises, turns, pivots to point almost directly at Whitley. A large night-black eye follows the ear in its attention, and finally, he turns his head and lifts his marker-toting hand, tipping the writing utensil in a quiet midnight salute. "Hey. Couldn't sleep?" his voice comes rumbling deep in bass.
Whitley blinks, and he actually tries to follow the complex math stuff on the whiteboard until it becomes clear that he simply cannot. Grey eyes remain on the board, even as Nevada addresses him. "No. I was staying up to finish homework…and required help," He gives a sheepish smile, almost like he's embarrassed. Which he really shouldn't be. Most students wouldn't go through the effort. "I should have figured they'd all gone home by now." The smile pulls into a grin in a fluid motion. "I think I may have just found the answer to my prayers…"
Nevada presses the palm of his hand against the tabletop behind him, easing forward and then reaching out to set the whiteboard marker on the rail of the board in front of him, his own version of a smile twisting at his muzzle. "Oh, have you?" he asks, deep voice thrumming with a certain serene style of mischief. "What is it, the fourth question on the problem set due Tuesday?" he wonders. "That's been tripping a lot of the Sophomores up."
"I have," Whitley answers with an assured nod. He places the black binder tucked underneath his arm on one of the tables and begins rummaging through papers. "How do you know what problems the sophomores are stuck on? I could have sworn you were a junior, at the very least." Maybe it is the towering height that's tripping him up. "The negative numbers in this problem are being weird," As if numbers can be weird. "I'm pretty sure they turn into imaginary numbers here, and…hm." He pauses when he finds the homework sheet. "I may have dozed off during class. How does the quadratic formula work again?"
Nevada turns slowly mid-stride to arrive beside Whitley looking vaguely in the same direction as the Sophomore. "I am. It's not really a secret, though, when ten, fifteen people are having trouble on the same problem," he smiles sedately, looking down to the problem in question. "You're right, you just have to remember that the square of b is the square of all of b, including its sign— so you'll want to make b squared positive in the formula," he explains. "Seeing as how the square of a negative is a positive," he backs up, just in case that much was unclear, as well. He may be a psychic, but he's no mind-reader. He glances aside to Whitley's profile in the stark fluorescent light of the room.
Whitley considers before stepping away to retrieve a pencil from his backpack. "Okay…so," He chews on his bottom lip some as he brings his pencil down to fix his errors, keeping Nevada's suggestions in mind. He never quite finishes that original thought. In fact, it is a minute or two until he says anything at all. After the short period of time, he slowly drops his pencil and holds his assignment paper up for Nevada to take a look at it. "Like that? I would have never guessed you were an awesome mathematician."
Nevada nods his head in one gentle movement of approval. "Just like that. See— and the rest goes along very naturally," he murmur-rumbles deeply, more focused, for the moment, upon the math than upon the Sophomore. But then he turns, angles a hip against the table, draws one bare foot back behind the other calf, cocking on knee outward in interest. "No? I guess I have the visage of a kind of a brute, don't I?" he puts it to Whitley, not sounding mad, or even very put out; just factual. He does look like something you'd see gnawiing on a human arm in the middle of a maze somewhere.
"Thank you," With the approval of Nevada, Whitley begins to pack his papers into his binder. He looks over the minotaur with a side eye. "Yeah, there are some stereotypes associated with a person of your size. Then again, I've found that stereotypes suck and often times, people are more than they appear at first. So I apologize if I offended." He looks to his binder that is being shoved into his backpack. "Are you a one trick bull, or is math not the only subject you excel at?"
"No, it's alright," Nevada understands— it's difficult for him not to understand. "I enjoy math and the hard sciences," he turns a few degrees, tail swishing to one side to bat against the side of his leg as he does so, while he gazes across the room in a casual scan of the facilities. "Although there aren't many academic subjects I find challenging. I think that at my core I may truly be omniscient. I can access vast troves of information I've never learned in any proper sense. If there is an end to the things that I know, I haven't yet found it. But I keep looking, anyhow. And usually find out something new and unusual along the way."
Whitley turns his grey gaze to Nevada. It's hard to tell what he's thinking under that mass of white curls. "Is that your power?" He does not hide his interest when he speaks. "Omniscient? Or a lesser form of it?" He nods, mostly to himself. "That is…a new one." He's seen super strength, telepathy, energy manipulation…you know, the basics. Nevada's sounds pretty awesome…and sorta disconcerting in a way. "Do you ever learn something you wish you hadn't? Like someone's secrets or stuff they wouldn't want to share with you." That would make the bull like his roommate. Which is not a great thing.
Nevada would probably have curls if he let his fur grow out at all. As it stands there are just whorling rosettes where the short-shaved locks lick over each other. He inclines his head in a nod of assent when Whitley asks whether that's his power. "I usually only learn things I wonder about. Sometimes I meditate and let the information simply come to me, but it sticks less well when I do. And, no, I haven't developed my mind labyrinth intricately enough to access individual thoughts and memories. Only shared and common knowledge. Like what question on the math homework is bothering quite a lot of the Sophomores."
"Oh," Whitley dips his head in a single nod. "That's good. People tend to like their thoughts being left alone. I cannot imagine my mind is a cheery place to visit, anyway." He offers dryly. Turning his body fully, he tilts his head, "Mind labyrinth? Like the one in Greek mythology?" It would fit, given Nevada's appearance. "I'm afraid my mind powers are mostly restricted to defensive purposes."
"No?" Nevada seems briefly intrigued by the comment on Whitley's brainspace, but he leaves the prodding at that, such as it is. "Ah— the labyrinth is a metaphor. It's my take on a mental training and memory technique known as the method of loci or the memory palace," he explains. "It's meant to help your recall of information by keeping it methodically stored in metaphorical rooms inside of your mind. My memory palace is just… larger than most. With corridors which wind around and continue on into infinity in all directions, as far as I can tell. So more aptly called a labyrinth. And, yes, it— suits the way I was born," he admits the coincidence. Which may well, of course, be no coincidence.
Whitley slings his bookbag over his shoulders after stuffing it full of his math materials. "Definitely a neat trick. Must come in handy during tests," He leans against the desk behind him, sitting on the edge and stretching his legs in front slightly. "I can't imagine your mind is an easy place to be, either. It sounds like it would be confusing and confounding for even the best of telepaths."
"Among other times," Nevada agrees, shifting his hips and bumping himself away from the desk while Whitley gets ready to leave, shuffling his bare feet against the tiles in a slow sashay back to the whiteboard. "It was the mind I was born with— I'm used to it, for my part, and can find my way around as I need to. But, yes, I've been told it's very disorienting, by psychics who've made mental contact with me." He takes up the marker, then puts it down, picking up the eraser, instead, and with a few slow swipes wiping the equations away. "Are you heading downstairs? I'll walk with you," he offers. "I should try to get some sleep tonight, at all."
<- Fade. ->