I was allowed to look: she was teacher. She stood at the front of the class, twisting herself into a series of crazy postures, which we all struggled ...ainly, flabbily, to copy. She was perfect. We trembled before her perfection – three old ladies, a skeletal teenager, and me. She didn’t seem to notice us: it was as if we were viewing her own private ritual. I stood at the back of the class and stared unashamedly. The whole hour, I gazed at her, willing my miserable self to copy her effortless. We would appreciate it if you would present your weapons to the private making the rounds. Obviously, if you should decide to use your weapon, there will be some unpleasantness..."I drew my pistol slowly, cleared it, and even partially disassembled it in order to avoid having some jackass come get it before the Marine working his way through the room. Any question regarding whether we were all under surveillance or not was answered when some jackass made to whip his weapon out and ZAP! A bolt. More

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