HITMAN ACTUAL, THIS IS HITMAN TWO ONE. WE HAVE A SITUATION UNDER THE MONKEY BARS: PART 2
Generation Kill
Elementary School AU (Inspired by this lovely picture by Moonar)
No pairings besides the glory of frieeendshipp
Words: ~2,400
Hey look, I wrote this. And here we have the beginnings of stuff that may become a plot, due to the introduction of the man of the hour, the one you've all be waiting for...
"This is Nate Fick. He’s moved here from Maryland and will be your new classmate."
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PART TWO
Just as it became almost unbearable to stay indoors for six hours straight, with only bending paperclips into interesting shapes and watching Trombley melt crayons on the radiator for fun, winter rolled into spring. The doors flung wide. It was soaking wet outside, but only once did they accidentally let the box drop to their ankles, water immediately soaking halfway up the cardboard sides. Bravo dried good as new, albeit looking a bit wrinkly and crushed.
April arrived. Ray had found in Walt someone besides Reporter who was actually willing to listen to his long rambling bullshit, though even Walt would occasionally hit him when he dragged on too long. Reporter just looked fascinated and made small scribbles in his notebook.
“Don’t write down that,” Trombley yelled at him as they went around the slide, where a small red-haired boy and his friend were jumping from the top, holding their jackets above them like parachutes. “Write how many bad guys we’ve slayed” -“Slain,” murmured Brad- “and how badass we are. Things like that.”
Reporter shrugged. “It’s just int’restin’.”
“ORC AT 5 O’CLOCK!” shouted Walt, who was going through a Lord of the Rings phase and happily dragging everyone else along with him. “Pow! Pow!” he pumped the supersoaker enthusiastically. A thin jet of water spat out the end, narrowly missing Rudy Reyes on the swings, who was famous as the only 1st grader to wear cologne.
“Did you just call me an orc, brother?” Rudy yelled back, swinging up.
Walt waved a hand and stumbled backwards as Ray made the ignition sound and Bravo sped up. “Hey!”
“Sorry Walt, but this humvee stops for no man.”
“Ray. Go to the bike rack.” Brad instructed, pointing at the set of rusty metal bars on the far edge of the playground. Ray obediently turned his invisible steering wheel in the direction of the bike rack. “Yes sir, Bradley Sir Brad.”
They made a sharp turn off. The bike rack was underneath the big windows that looked into the main entrance hall of the school. As they passed, Walt made a little exclamation of surprise and elbowed Reporter in the ribs. “Hey!”
“Ray- stop.” Brad commanded. “What is it, Walt? Is the side splitting again?”
“No- look inside.” Walt jabbed a finger at the window. Ray shuffled them up to the glass.
In the hall was a lanky looking kid they had never seen before, standing with the principal and a woman who was presumably his mother. The two adults were talking while the boy stood about, aimlessly looking around him with the obvious air of a new kid.
But what had caught Walt’s attention was quite obvious- the new boy’s left leg was plastered up in a cast and he stood on crutches. His head was swathed in gauze that took on a purplish hue through the tinted school windows and a few strands of light hair wisped out from underneath.
The collective imagination of Bravo went haywire.
“Maybe his dad’s in the mob, an’ their enemies beat him up,” Ray proposed, pressing his nose against the glass. “He comes from a broken home.”
Brad was examining the kid as though he could glean his secrets through the window. “Shut up, Ray.”
“I wonder what ‘is name is,” Reporter mumbled, scribbling.
“Are you makin’ him a lifestory in your little notebooky, War Scribe?” Ray demanded, conscientiously using a Vocab Word of the Week and reaching to seize the pad. “’Cause that’s lying and my mom said not to lie.”
“Ray, when have you ever said anything that might pass for the truth, ever?” Walt complained. “don’ yell at people for lying.”
Trombley was playing with his rubber band gun absently. "He won’ be able to join us because his leg’s broke.” He shrugged. “I guess.”
Ray looked over at Brad. “Whaddya think, Brad? You wanna ask him?”
Brad stepped back from the window and shrugged. “Trombley’s right, though. He wou’n be able to run with us and there’s no room anyways.”
“Well maybe it’s time to get a bigger b- humvee then?” Reporter suggested, reasonably. Ray spun around. “Oh no! This is our precious humvee. Brad and I even painted it ourselves!” He waved a hand at the blue splotches. “See? Awesome.”
The bell rang then and the yard teacher began yelling for everyone to line up. The bloodthirsty warriors of Bravo reluctantly dragged their feet towards the door.
“Anyways,” said Ray, “He might be a real douchebag. This means recon, Brad. Good thing you really like recon.”
XXX
Brad did like recon.
He was fairly good at it, as well. “If you’d bin a girl, Brad,” Ray had said, “You’d be a gossipin’ one.”
But the new kid had seemed to have vanished with his mother, and by the end of the day Brad was no further than having confirmed his existence.
The next day, however, he was more successful. When he walked into the classroom, he found those already assembled crowded around the embarrassed-looking boy on crutches, bombarding him with questions. Walt was among them, as well as Reporter. Trombley was sitting as per usual at his desk, not interacting, and Ray habitually showed up later than Brad did.
Walt broke away from the crowd when he noticed Brad and practically skipped up to him. “He’s really nice, Brad, I like him a lot. His name’s Nate and he used to live in Mary Land and he broke his leg falling out of a tree and-“
“Walt, you’re talking like Ray after Halloween. Slow down.”
Walt grinned. “Jus’ go over and talk to him, ‘cause he’s really nice.”
Brad gritted his teeth. Going and talking to this Nate kid seemed so…easy. He would rather have to scrounge up evidence, some of it preferably in code or French.
Ray strolled in at that moment, just a second before Mr. Ferrando did. He tossed a sloppy salute at Brad and sprawled in the seat next to him.”Hi Brad. Oh whoa, new kid’s in our class! Didya meet him? What’s his name? Did he vote for Bush?”
Before Brad could answer no; Nate; and he’s too young to vote Ray for each respective question, Mr. Ferrando cleared his throat with a sound reminiscent of a chainsaw revving up, effectively scattering the kids bunched about Nate back to their respective seats. Ferrando was an ex-Marine who for reasons known only to himself had decided to devote his talents upon the first graders of Mathilda Elementary. For reasons even more mysterious he had been given the job. At least by the time they got to second grade his pupils were generally the most disciplined, hardworking, and bloodthirsty in the school, possibly in the entire country.
“Class. Today is 15th April, cycle day 4 on your schedules. Today is also the day when tax returns are due, so remind your parents to fill out those forms.” Ferrando’s gravelly voice demanded complete attention, even if half of what he was saying went straight over the heads of the assembled first graders. He glared about at them. “Now. Roll call.”
Roll went as usual, and when Ferrando was finished he jabbed a finger at Nate, sitting in his desk to the far left of the classroom. “Now, you’ve probably seen that we have a new addition to our ranks today. This is Nate Fick. He’s moved here from Maryland and will be your new classmate. Ferrando wants everyone to make sure he feels welcome here.”
Nate gave a small smile at the twenty-so pairs of eyes that had turned to him, and waved a hand.
Ferrando cleared his throat again, and the eyes snapped back to him. “Now. Today we will begin with a review in basic spatial recognition as we enter our geometry unit.” He glared, holding up a box of brightly coloured blocks. “You will be in your customary groups. Team leaders, come and see me for blocks now.”
Several kids immediately jumped up, Brad among them. Ray lazily rose from his seat, and waved his hands in come hither motions to Walt, Trombley, and Reporter. Ferrando had let them organize themselves into groups sometime around mid-November. Gabe had occupied Walt’s spot until he moved, and Ferrando had plucked Walt from an unwieldy group of six to even things out.
Brad returned to where the members of Bravo had congregated, carrying a Ziploc of red blocks. He dumped them out on the desk, and began sorting them into piles according to shape, while Ray mixed up his work into a mess again.
Nate was standing awkwardly at his desk, glancing around and unsure of where to go. He raised a tentative hand, “Um…”
Ferrando’s sharp eyes focused on him. “Ah, yes. Well, Mr. Fick, for now why don’t you go with Colbert’s group. If necessary Ferrando will reassign you to a different group later.”
Nate swung his way over to where Bravo was assembled, though of course for now they were simply ‘Brad’s group’. He was surprisingly agile on the crutches, and wove through the desks easily.
Ray grinned at him widely. “Hey hey, the six million dollar man, before the roboty bits got put in! Hi! I’m Ray, the serial killer is Trombley there, the tall one with no emotions is Brad, but he’s really a marshmallow awwent you, Bwaadwee-“ (“Shut up, Ray”) “-this is Walt, you can ruffle his hair, it’s really soft, and Reporter is the one with the terror in his eyes. I actually forget his real name but that’s okay! (“Evan,” mumbled Reporter, an air of resignation in his voice) How didya break your leg? Didya jump from a moving vehicle? Did a wildebeest attack you?”
Here Ray paused and took a big gulp of air, but before he could continue with the Spanish Inquisition, Mr. Ferrando began talking. “ALRIGHT LISTEN UP. Your task is to locate the correct prism on my command within the shortest period possible. The usual ROE remains in place- no throwing blocks, no cheating, no putting anything in your mouth” -if his eyes lingered slightly on Ray at the last, it was probably just a coincidence- “and of course, do your best work here, gentlemen.”
The class nodded. The girls just as vigourously; they had become quite accustomed to being addressed as ‘gentlemen’ or simply ‘men’ along with the boys.
“Are we all clear on the objective? Excellent. Now- cube.”
There was a clattering as everyone scrabbled about for the cube. Ferrando nodded approvingly. “Pyramid.”
Things progressed as such for fifteen more minutes, during which the instructions became increasingly complicated (“RECTANGULAR PRISM!” “HEXAGONAL PRISM WITH OBTUSE BASE!” “BALANCE THE TETRAHEDRON UPON THE ELLIPSOID!”) when they were suddenly interrupted by one of the fourth grade teachers, Mr. Patterson. He stepped into the room, looking fairly distressed. Even more distressed than an average fourth grade teacher. “F’rando. Mattis needs you in his office, pronto. One of the fifth grade classrooms is on fire.”
Ferrando sighed. Just another day on the job. “I’ll need someone to supervise my class while I’m gone.”
“How about John? He has a free period while Doc teaches his kids how many different ways they can die on the playground and shows them how to dress wounds.”
“Sounds like we’ll need those skills if the fourth grade’s preoccupation with pyrotechnics persists,” muttered Ferrando. “All right. Get John.”
Patterson ducked out of the room, his rapid footfalls fading down the hall.
“Well, gentlemen. It seems your esteemed comrades in the fourth grade have once again managed to compromise the safety of the school. Mr. Sixta will be taking temporary command. Ferrando expects you to show him the same level of respect as you would Ferrando. Are we clear, gentlemen?”
Nods all around. A mumbled ‘Aye Aye’ from Ray’s general vicinity.
Mr. Patterson screeched back into the room, practically dragging a shorter man with a gruff face. “Good? Thanks John, really appreciate it.” He waved a hand at Ferrando and the two took off.
Mr. Sixta looked around with the air of a Crown Prince surveying the kingdom while his father dies slowly in the background. “Look atchee,” he barked, making the class jump, “Lookin’ like a horde of the homeless! Don’t they teach you how to wash an’ dress yourselves nowadays?” Glares directed at the assembled eight year olds. “How do you expect to be a success in life if you don’t take pride in your appearance? What job is gonna hire a band of slobs like yourselves!?”
The class had no response to that one, and so sat quietly.
“Mr. Ferrando will be back shortly, but until then I want you to be discussing these geometric shapes that you have in front of you! Any non-geometric-related conversation is prohibited! Discuss!” Mr. Sixta paced in front of the whiteboard, his eyes scanning across the room, which slowly began to fill with tentative chatter.
Ray pushed a cube at Brad. “Look Brad. Square. S-Q-W-A-R-E, Brad. Square.”
“That’s not how you spell square. It’s gotta ‘U’ in it after the ‘Q’.” Walt rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows that. Only kinnagardners don’t know that.”
Brad shoved the cube back and Ray. “And it’s not a square anyways. ‘sa cube.” He turned towards Nate, who was sitting quietly, draw into his chair with his shoulders slightly hunched and his hands on his lap, the way kids do when they want to be unobtrusive.
“Before Ray can go off on another string of stupidity- hello.”
Nate gave a small grin. “Hi.”
“Nothing I say is stupid, it’s all wisdom.” Ray protested.
“It’s stupid.” Walt hit him with an octahedron.
“I will apologize right now for all the idiocy you’re going to hear from Ray in the future. He grew up in a trailer with several farm animals so he’s a bit off.”
“That’s so mean, Brad,” pouted said trailer spawn, flicking a block off the desk and nearly hitting Trombley, who was trying to start a fire by rubbing a cylinder against a rectangular pyramid.
“STOP ALL THIS YAPPING ABOUT NONSENSE AND START WORKING!” roared Mr. Sixta, who had materialized besides the little cluster. A vein popped in his neck, which was worrisome for someone of his age. Sixta glared around and then swooped off to direct his attentions at John and Evan, who were rapping about shapes and throwing about a few too many expletives as they did so.
Brad grinned at Nate and told Ray to go pick up the block he had sent flying. At least recess was only two hours away.