<div class="floatright">(http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg142/ElectricBadger/9b68c17b-d2b1-4394-9891-32bf2519de79_zps66794b1c.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;">Jax</span><br/>St. Cosmas High, Math Class<br/>Tagging: Anyone</span><br/><hr/><br/>It took a while for things to get weird.  At first, the only odd thing about the day was that others were tired too; Jax herself had been up most of the night figuring out the source of an odd vibration in her bike, so she slept right through French herself.  It wasn't an unusual tactic for dealing with the foreign language - and more notably the too-energetic new teacher, Ms. Lasby, who acted like a puppy on crack.  It was her first year of teaching, at least, so Jax was often at least able to make her lack of attention seem like Ms. Lasby's fault for not keeping things lively enough.  This was like taunting the puppy, but it got her an easy morning.<br/><br/>Social studies was a bit stranger.  History was something she actually enjoyed, although the soulless, carefully edited and controversy-free version taught in high school was a bit of a downer.  Mr. Brad - yes, he went by his first name - was one of the few to appreciate her points of view though, and they had some good debates while the other kids did whatever inane garbage was on the district curriculum.  Today, though, no debate, not even a comment about the news.  Mr. Brad just gave out a reading assignment, mumbled something about grading, and spent the rest of the class hunched behind his desk.<br/><br/>Math did it, though.  Another reading assignment, and an uninspired, obviously last minute group exercise - something to do with blocks and graphs that made little sense even to the geeks - and Mrs. Taylor-Brown actually left class.  For twenty minutes.  And not a single kid misbehaved.<br/><br/>It was more than eerie; it was some sort of stepford wives crap.  Subdued conversation, several kids actually sitting with their books open, and then they started nodding off one by one.  She went back and turned on the radio, just to be a bit obnoxious, but nobody complained about NPR or heavy metal...or even the weather station at full blast.  As they grew more lethargic, Jax grew more anxious: her heart was beating quickly as she tried to rouse some of the students.<br/><br/>Her thoughts went immediately to a terrorist gas attack.  This obviously wasn't normal, and she suspected a disgruntled homicidal trenchcoated student would go for something more dramatic.  Probably she was somehow immune; weird regressive DNA or the restorative power of clove cigarettes.  She tucked one in her mouth just in case, although she didn't light it.<br/><br/>So: what would Bruce Willis do?<br/><br/>Arming herself was a good step one.  She grabbed a stapler and lifted it threateningly, realized how ludicrous it was, and hefted a blue plastic and steel chair instead; it still didn't seem like a promising weapon, but the portly Mrs. Taylor-Brown, fan of floral prints, charlie brown and word problems that featured cheesecake, didn't seem like the type to keep a 12 gauge in her desk.<br/><br/>Step two: get help.  She pulled out her iphone and tapped in 911, but paused with her finger above the Send button.  It's possible this was just some weird fluke.  And how would that look?  "Delinquent student dials 911 to report napping".  Flash.<br/><br/>New step two: recon.  Jax moved to the door, peering out the small, wire-mesh and glass window pane before slowly pushing it outward and looking down the hallway.