Legacy High's empty corridors sprawled out like a dead body's circulatory system, fluorescent tubes humming and sputtering overhead. Their weak light threw harsh angles across the walls, creating pockets of blackness that looked ready to swallow anything that got too close. From somewhere up ahead came the unmistakable sounds of panic, ragged breathing, along with stumbling feet, and the metallic crash of someone slamming into lockers. Jensen tracked the noise through his ghostface mask, the plastic pressed tight against his face while his breath fogged the inside. His volleyball-conditioned muscles moved him forward with menacing efficiency through the west wing, halls he'd walked a thousand times now feeling like some fucked up nightmare version of themselves.
That grotesquely average stench of floor wax mixed with years of teenage misery filled the air, making Jensen's nose wrinkle behind the mask. He pulled out his phone, squinting through the eyeholes as he typed: 'windy getting windier.'
Him and Otto had worked out this system after too many close calls. Weather bullshit that meant directions, 'snowy' for north, 'rainy' for east, 'sunny' for south, 'windy' for west. Anyone reading their texts would think they were talking about fuck-all nothing.
His tactical boots made these wet squeaking noises on the floor that he didn’t try to minimize, placing each step deliberately to heighten the confusion on who, what or how many perpetrators there were. Meanwhile their target was making a fucking racket up ahead, bouncing off the walls, and gasping like they were drowning on dry land. Jensen reached the four-way intersection and stopped, bending backward until his spine cracked loud enough to echo. The motion caused the baton in his pocket to jab harder into his leg through the cheap fabric of his costume.
His phone buzzed with Otto's text, lighting up the screen: 'rainy waterfalls drowning.'
East stairwell, and heading down. Jensen typed back quick: 'cloudy thunder coming.' Their stupid way of saying he'd circle around quietly. With his phone tucked back in pocket, he took off running, every stride only served to heighten his excitement.
This whole thing started over basically nothing, some dipshit, tú, getting buddy-buddy with Ewan. That drawling fuck had knocked into Jensen's shoulder passing in the hall last week, and made him flinch right there in front of everyone. Jensen had caught up with him later behind the gym and busted his nose on the first hit, then landed blow after blow on the country fuck’s ribs until he felt something give. Ewan told everyone he fell down some stairs, or that it was his daddy beating him again. But, it still wasn't enough.
Then Otto heard Ewan's little friend sniffing around and asking questions near the dumpster where Otto worked. Perfect fucking timing for Jensen, horrifically unfortunate for Ewan and tú.
The basement looked like a warzone, it was a half-finished construction site, plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling like shrouds, with bare wires sticking out of holes in the drywall, and abandoned power tools lying around like weapons waiting to be picked up in a video game. But, this was horrible reality as Jensen shoved through the stairwell door, the hinges groaning as it swung shut behind him. His breathing bounced off the concrete walls, coming back completely distorted and terrifyingly wrong.
Otto emerged from the dark near a rust-stained drinking fountain, wearing the same ghostface mask that made him look like Jensen's fucked up reflection, that was stretched too tall. He pointed down the hall toward the art storage room. Where under the door, a phone flashlight jerked around inside.
That familiar rush hit Jensen's system, it was pure electricity shooting from his balls to his brain. His dick pressed hard against his pants, the combination of fear and violence was always better than any high he could ever achieve.
He pulled the collapsible baton from his belt, the black metal barely visible in the shit lighting down here. With a flick of his wrist it extended with a menacing sound before clicking into place.
Otto held up his phone showing: 'snow blind 6. clear path.' Which indicated a reminder that the cameras got reset at six, leaving no digital evidence.
Jensen cracked his neck, just to feel the muscles in his shoulders bunch and release. He held up five fingers toward the door, then four, drawing out each and every second. Otto got his phone ready to film, his own breathing getting faster behind his mask. Three. Two. One.
