First attempt at GSG humor! This is what happens when we ask the question, "What would happen if Claes taught school for a day?"
Disclaimer: I don't own Gunslinger Girl nor its characters.
Thanks to: Everyone on the forums who have helped me develop this! All of my annoying questions will pay off...
The chatter of the class was deafening, drowning out the metallic ring of the tardy bell. Rico's scramble to her seat during the last precious seconds were the only warning Triela had. Immediately, she turned her back to Henrietta and straightened the supplies on her desk: four meticulously sharpened pencils, pens of every hue, notes carefully organized in chronological order, and a fresh pack of loose-leaf paper. Adjusting her blazer, the class president awaited the sub's entrance patiently, a half-smile on her face.
A pair of peep-toe heels entered the room. That's all Petrushka saw, anyway—the older girl was too busy texting Sandro under her desk to look up. She'd been held back a year, and was trying for two. The sound of near-silence was lost on the redhead's ears.
Angelica stared on in horror. The substitute had arrived, and it didn't look like she was going to take any of Petra's usual crap. She walked calmly down an isle, meter stick in hand, calmly surveying her subjects. But her eyes kept flickering to Petra, and Angie didn't understand until her eye caught the flashing screen in her classmate's hand. She bit her lip and waited.
"Before we begin today, I would like to establish one rule, and one rule only." Henrietta hung on to the teacher's every word. Her grades weren't exactly spectacular, but she did her best. She kept her eyes front, trying her best to ignore Petra's keyboard clicking and Beatrice's breath on the back of her neck while the sub wrote her name on the board. 'Ms. Johansson', it said.
"Don't piss me off."
Triela looked up from her notes for a millisecond, then copied down what Ms. Johansson said. "Don't...piss...off..."
Rico raised her hand tentatively. "Um...Ms. Johansson?"
The substitute turned her stare on the girl, who shrunk in her seat. "What is it?"
"I was wondering whether Mr. Croce is going to be back tomorrow..."
The sub's expression hardened. "Go ahead and wonder," she replied, turning to the chalkboard again.
As Jean's replacement launched into an excruciating History lecture, Petra's cell phone erupted into what Triela vaguely recognized as "Der Kommisar". Ms. Johansson turned and stalked to the back of the class, paused to take her glasses off, and snatched the phone. Prying off the back compartment, she extracted the battery and threw the worthless shell back into the hands of the student.
"Hey...no, what...What the hell are you–"
Ms. Johansson said nothing, but rummaged in the cabinets around the classroom. In a few moments she removed a beaker and, carefully, a smaller container that appeared to hold oil and a darker silver substance. With the addition of some water in the beaker, she placed the container on a large desk at the front. First dropping the cell phone battery into the container of water, she then deposited a tiny sliver of what Triela now knew to be sodium into the beaker.
The sub didn't flinch at the explosion beside her.
Petra, fuming but still unable to process what had just occurred, stared from her seat in the back.
"You pissed me off," Ms. Johansson said calmly.