My Classmate is a Killer (Unfinished)

Chapter 2: The Call To Action

I have the intelligence of a seal balancing a ball off its nose, I groan internally as I stare blankly at the ceiling of my apartment, its tiles once white replaced with a grimy, yellowing surface. All you had to do was ask for her number. You've killed drug lords, defused bombs and still can't talk to girls. Annoyed, I return my focus to my desk, cluttered with all sorts of things: bits of paper, homework and assignments, novels and textbooks, even pieces of machinery. Another sigh is audible as I attempt to resolve this crisis unfolding upon my beloved wooden desk. While removing some papers, I accidentally unearth several photos that I have kept my entire life: Me in a class picture from a previous school, barely visible yet present to those who know. A slightly older picture of me and my parents, slightly folded at the edges with creases down its centre. The last picture I picked up with more care and tenderness. A more recent picture of me and my squad after a mission in France. I hold the picture up, analysing it with great care. The picture contains me as well as my closest friends. Comrades. Everyone is smiling, holding funny faces or poses or hand gestures. Even I was smiling, despite my face being covered by my gas mask. I chuckle, reminiscing of the older times.

Feeling nostalgic, I walk over to my closet and swing open one of the wooden panels, revealing my old gear. Vest, balaclava, gas mask; all in place and untouched, collecting dust. I pick up the gas mask and examine its worn features like an antique: the tinted visor, custom fitted night-vision visor resting on the roof of it, the standard circular filters on both cheeks of the mask. My solem face reflects off the mask's visor, reminding me of who I was. Who I really am. I quickly shake the thought. This was Spectre, not Jordan McDuff. I put the mask back, and hastily close the closet with a resounding thud.

Suddenly, my phone goes off on my bed across the room. I slide across the room and retrieve the device, revealing a phone call from someone. I pick up the call, and am instantly greeted with a familiar husky voice.

"Jordan. It's me." My mouth goes dry. I try to say something but nothing exits my throat. The man on the line continues.

"I know you said you wanted out for good, but we have a situation. One that requires you." My grip tightens around the phone.

"Sir, there are other people that could easily do that. Call someone-"

"There is no-one else, unfortunately," the cold voice cuts me off.

"Our forces are stretched thin across the globe. The Hive is back." I nearly fall over from shock.

"How? I thought they died in that last raid I did."

"Me too, and yet nothing is ever as it seems." The man replies. I scratch my neck, contemplating my options. I could go back, but that would mean going back to that life. I've done so much to get away from it. As if the man could hear my thoughts, he speaks again, this time in a more empathetic tone.

"Jordan, please. We need your help. You know him better than any of us. We need your knowledge. Expertise. Please, for old time's sake." My grip is so tight I nearly snap my phone in two. The room is silent as I contemplate my decisions once more. Do I go back? Do I stay? Can I let this one go? Can this be someone else's problem? Just for once? I sigh, and speak finally. In a cold yet apologetic tone:

"Sorry Captain, I'm not your guy." I hang up immediately afterward, tossing the phone away from me as I lie back on my bed, legs swinging up and down. I sigh, staring at the yellowing ceiling tiles of my apartment, remembering the time when they were first white.

***

A week has passed since the call. Nothing much has occurred. Lily, Mark and I have become good friends, despite me barely saying anything. Lily and I's relationship is improving by the day. We have a lot in common; we both like the same Sci-fi movies, we both share a passion for instruments (albeit my skills compare poorly to hers,) we even have similar future goals. She wants to be an artist, I aspire to be a musician. Smiling at the thought, humming a wordless tune, I enter the classroom. Early as usual. My smile suddenly fades as my gaze shifts from the empty desks to a yellow docket on my table. No name, no label, nothing. I inspect the file, feeling its edges and thickness. It's slightly warm. This was placed recently. I hesitantly open the docket, and my heart sinks. The docket bears pictures of myself in my SAS uniform, bearing my beloved MPK5. These pictures are old yet telling. These pictures are my past. Sweat slides down the sides of my head as I read a note attached to one of the pictures. It reads "Meet out back. After school." My stomach feels twisted and full of butterflies as my head starts to calculate the possibility that someone found out my secret. It's impossible for it to be anyone from here. Right? No-one would be close enough to me to be able to-

"Hiya Jordan! Whatcha got there?" I jump at the sudden intrude. Standing at the door is none other than Mark and Lily. I quickly dash the file into my bag and attempt to lower my heart rate as quickly as possible. No amount of training compensates for moments like these. Lily walks over to me first, Mark still finding his chair despite it being a week already.

"What was in that file that was so embarrassing? A love interest perhaps~" the green-eyed devil prods, causing me to fluster slightly.

"It's just... homework." Real convincing. Lily, not at all convinced, reaches for the file, it's yellow figure protruding from the top of my bag. I wince, attempting to stop her, but she manages to hoist the file out and open it up in a single motion. Lily's eyes suddenly go wide, as her jaw drops. Her eyes dance across the docket, analysing each photo with incredible speed. Mark, intrigued with her reaction, waltzes over and peeks over her shoulder, and gives an equally surprised look, albeit with less jaw-dropping. My heart feels like it's about to burst. What should I do? Kill them? No, that would be too complex in terms of cleanup. My mind continues to race as they continue to gawk at me. I could perhaps explain that this is all photoshopped for a project or something-

"Jordan. You never told us you were a cosplayer!" the green-eyed devil exclaims as my gaze slowly shifts towards her. "This costume looks so cool! Is this for Halloween?"

I blink, comprehending what she had just said. Did she just-

"Yeah, you should totally try out for the upcoming costume competition! You would definitely win!" Mark chimes in. I think I may actually have a stroke right now. I blink again, struggling to think of a response.

"...Thanks..." I respond weakly, Oxygen yet to return to my lungs. The pair look at me, confused.

"Are you alright, Jordan? You look pale." Lily asks, worried. I quickly shake my head and sit up straight.

"All good."

So this is what social anxiety feels like. I sigh, the oxygen finally back in my lungs, as the rest of my classmates enter alongside the teacher, who lectures us for being too early. I barely listen, relieved that I am still Jordan McDuff. Perhaps today is a good day after all.

***

A man in SAS gear stumbles up the metal stairs towards a door, its sign illuminated with a singular bulb. The sign reads "Authorised personnel only" in red ink. The man pushes his hair back, sweat converging with the hair gel applied earlier that morning. Sweat covers his hands clad in military-grade leather as he grips the door handle with care. Opening the door, he immediately comes face to face with a security guard, his blue helmet and black visor masking any emotion or reaction, his rifle gleaming. The nervous SAS operator clears his throat and speaks with caution.

"I am here to see the general." The guard, without saying a word, nods and steps aside, revealing a well-dressed older gentleman sitting at a large wooden table. The older gentleman appears to be in a state of distress; his greying hair, both ruffled and oily, his skin, both pale and sweaty. Several cigarettes are scattered across the table along with papers of disclosed information. If not for his green uniform, he could have been confused for a resident at an old people's home. The older gentleman glances at the nervous SAS operator, and gestures for him to sit. The SAS operator takes a seat as the older gentleman, lighting another cigarette, asks

"Captain Davis, any update on Operator Spectre? Has he responded to the call back to action?"

Captain Davis, sweating literal buckets, clears his throat.

"Yes sir."

"What did he say?"

"He has rejected the offer, sir." Captain Davis responds. The general coughs, smoke filling the atmosphere of the room.

"How about the others? Have they responded?" the general asks, hopeful.

"Yes sir, several former members have agreed to rejoin with some specific conditions." the Captain responds. "They should be waiting outside right now."

The general nods, gesturing for him to bring them in. The Captain jumps from his chair and opens the door, allowing several operators in a similar uniform to him to enter and find their seats. The general addresses them all, cigarette still in mouth.

"Good evening to you all. Today, we strike the heart of the enemy and finally put an end to the Hive. Gear up, the Captain will brief you in 20 minutes."