"All right, you clowns," I barked, standing before the assembled disaster brigade that was my class. "Today, you will experience firsthand the fruits of your own stupidity."
My students—mud-smeared, rope-burned, mildly concussed—stood in a loose, worried huddle. Julien cracked his knuckles, grinning. Mira looked positively gleeful. Felix seemed to be silently praying to every god he could name. Wallace was still adjusting the tension on the cabbage catapult, muttering about "trajectory correction" like a mad scientist.
Leo raised his hand weakly. "Professor... are you sure this is safe?"
I stared at him.
"Safe? SAFE?" I roared. "Safety is for nobles with titles worth a damn and houses that aren't made of rotting swamp wood! We are Class C! Safety is an illusion!"
Leo visibly shrank.
Garrick, ever the brave idiot, stepped forward. "I'll go first."
I clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit. Meathead goes in first to trigger all the hidden disasters. Standard tactics."
