Strength 101

Sunlight shines through floor-to-ceiling windows as ten young women file into the classroom. A few wear ballgowns, another a school uniform, others jeans or tailored suits. To call them a mixed bag would be an understatement. Their expressions and mannerisms are as varied as their clothing. Some appear apprehensive. One twists a strand of unnaturally red hair around her fingers as she takes in the blackboards, the bookshelves, the ceramic tiles and fluorescent lights. The blonde with big blue eyes and a dress that looks like it’s worth more than the GNP of some small countries–

“Excuse me?” The blonde in the gown is the first to speak. “Yes, THE BLONDE. I have a name. Princess Marischina of Glabbledyglornk.”

Very well. Princess Marischina–

“No. Narrator, you need to stop describing us by what we look like. We’re people.”

Princess, it’s all we have to go on right now. These readers have never met you. We’re just setting the scene here.

“Fine. But I’m keeping my eye on you. My ear. Whatever.”

My apologies, readers. As I was saying, Her Grand High Princessness Marischina of Glabbledyglornk, whose name we as of yet have no reason to know and who is probably a very wonderful person under that gaudy gown–

“Hey!” Marischina glares at the ceiling.

Moving on.

A girl with hair as dark as the circles beneath her eyes helps another young woman find a desk. Said young lady immediately takes up a one-sided conversation with the globe to her left, and her new friend backs away slowly. There’s some talk, some doodling in notebooks, but most students have their eyes fixed on the door, waiting for the teacher to arrive.

The sky outside the windows darkens as clouds block out the sun. The door slams open in a gust of wind. It’s an impressive trick, to be sure; that door leads to an indoor hallway. The redhead bites her lip. The black-haired woman beside her smirks.

The teacher enters, clothed in tight leather that shows off an impressive physique. It’s curvy enough to draw the attention of every man she’s ever met and shot down, muscular enough to take them out if they don’t back off when she says, “No, I do not care to have you bag my groceries.” The guns at her hips and the knives strapped to her legs do nothing to impede her progress as she strides to the blackboard and scrawls STRENGTH 101 across its surface. She snaps the chalk in half and tosses her wild blue hair over hair shoulder. It is perfection.

She digs through a desk drawer and pulls out a thick file.

“No need for introductions,” she says. Her voice is like gravel, and like water over the pebbles in a brook, and other interesting-things-that-are-rocks. “You’re all here because you need some %&*#ing help.” She scowls. “Hey!”

Sorry. Can’t have too much swearing here. Some of these women are barely YA.

“Shit,” she mutters, and quirks an eyebrow.

It’s a fine line.

“As I was saying. I’m Angstina Darkington, but you can call me Tina. I’m here to teach you little wimps how to be strong female characters. Some of you are getting passing grades from a lot of readers, but have had complaints. Others are failing your way to the gutter, probably stumbling there because clumsiness is your only flaw.” Someone giggles, and Tina shuts her up with a dark glare. “I’m here to whip you all into shape.”

A pencil taps against a desk. Tina’s sharp eyes search her class until she finds the culprit, a skinny kid in ripped jeans. She strides toward the student, leather boots silent on the floor. “Did you have something to say?”