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The boot hit earth and kept going, heels driving through soil, imprinting onto the path with each heavy step. Each march sent up crushed grass and mud. Dirt spat and clung to each surface, tugging at the leather insteps with a wet, hungry insistence; when you ripped your foot free it left a sound like a small animal protesting. Footfalls fell in a ragged metronome - clomps, scrapes, slides - Any other sound mapped danger, a signal for the body to keep moving towards safety.
The sun sat low but unwavering, turning the field to a hard, bright stage. The smell surrounding the area was that of warmed grass and sweat, with just the right amount of anticipation in the blend. Alex moved like someone who had practised moving without being seen; the world narrowed down to a straight shot towards the next best shelter point, behind a large concrete block. He peeked his head out from his crouched position behind a stack of pallets, gauging whether he could make the dash without being spotted.
"Crocodile Team, hold," someone hissed, voice too loud with too little breath. Alex’s head instinctively whipped towards the sound, a disappointed expression on his face before he pulled his head back in within the cover. They were too loud, and now, he knew their position. Surely they could have been a little more cautious… Amateurs.
Alex quietly gestured towards the northeast side - where their opponents were, and earned back nods of understanding from his teammates. He then checked his marker as if checking a familiar watch. The way it fit into his palms felt like a crime - he shouldn’t be so familiar with weapons of mass destruction, but he just was.
A flash of movement, a break in a hedge. Alex timed his breath, centred his body, peeked over the pallets and took the shot. The shot flew in a clean, decisive arc and caught the chest of a guy in a grey tee like someone had drawn a neon dash across the field. A shout and the boy went down, half in defeat and half in real surprise. His team sprung up to accompany his winning shot, only to miss the mark, or shoot with what could only be described as their best shots - absolutely paling in comparison to his clean cut.
The whole thing could have been described with battlefield metaphors if the teachers at the edge of the field cared for that sort of dramatics, but here, it was called paintball.
"Nice!" someone called. Tom's voice, threaded with a grin you could hear. He had a way of being loud when he was proud, and right now he was both. He ducked his head out from behind the block and gave Alex a quick thumbs-up before a spray of colour forced him back and groaning on the ground.
Steph emerged from the same block Tom had, wiping a streak of orange from her cheek. "How do you do that?" she demanded, "there's no way you took out our team leader so fast like—" she ducked away cleverly before she could be shot by Alex’s much more ‘well-mentored’ team.
Alex simply shrugged with a smug grin, having moved himself behind the concrete block, on the opposite side of his opponents. The simplest answers were the best: "Practice," he said, which was true but also incomplete. He could have said video games, as he'd joked once before, but it felt more useful at the moment to let them invent the explanation that fit their imaginations. He heard the capsules whizz by and some splattered across the block he was sheltered behind.
Teachers hovered on the fringe, suggesting polite reminders about safety and fair play. “Now, I want a nice, clean game. Until someone from the Crocodile team can take down the Wolf team’s leader, or until the Crocodile team gets completely eliminated, the game isn’t over!” A pause, as if missing something important and searching for it “Ah, no head shots!”
Most of the other students had the same puzzled curiosity. In Britain, the rules and the culture around guns made precision like this a thing you didn't see every Saturday unless you were in the army or went shooting at a private range, let alone if you were a 16 year old at school.
Except for Tom. Tom knew. He'd seen the other side of Alex. The small, offhand skills that didn't make sense until you put them together. He'd been there for the quiet conversations Alex avoided having in the light of day. Tom's eyes met Alex's for the briefest of seconds after that clean first shot with a small grin before he shuffled off the field, disqualified from the game because he got shot.
Nobody else noticed the exchange. To them, Alex was a mystery and a marvel, someone they associated with odd happenings. To Tom, Alex was just Alex, just very very traumatised, but very cool too.
"You're not even in the Army," Jahid, who fancied himself an amateur sniper ever since he read a war memoir, grumbled from the sidelines, holding his marker close. "Where'd you get trained, then? Secret forces, eh Bond?" The joke was half praise, half suspicion.
Alex felt yet another smug smile fill his face. He liked it that way - small truths left people filling in with theories. “No, just watched a lot of spy flicks!” he called back, and the game resumed.
Pallets became barricades, tyres were hills, and sunlit grass split the area into angles. Neon paint blots arced bright in the scorching sunlight. Henderson took a blue blossom to the chest and looked around for a conspirator before realizing the perpetrator was a grinning Aiysha who'd been invisible until she'd pounced, thanks to Alex’s ‘guide to being invisible.’
The Wolf team won by a landslide, and a sweaty but happy Tom stayed close to Alex. “Too bad I wasn’t with the winning team” He bumped the blonde’s shoulder, making him scoff. “Yeah, I want to learn how you disappeared like that” Steph turned to Aiysha, a chilled Capri-Sun in her hands as she wiped off the sweat on her forehead.
"He's just that good of a leader and mentor," Tom insisted when one of the teachers asked outright if Alex had taken lessons. His tone suggested a private boast ‘that's my best mate.’
After the final whistle, the group gathered under a shelter, having had time to cool down from the game. "Good sport, all of you," The P.E teacher said. Then, with his voice taking on a hint of admiration, he added, "You lot had someone with a great eye today. Alex, if you ever want to put that energy to good use, maybe actually commit to the football team” before turning back to address the class for their good game before dismissing them.
On the walk towards the washrooms for a good refresh before going home, Tom moved ahead and nudged his friends’ shoulder. “You led your team to a victory, Cub” he used the code name the boy carried. “But maybe next time, don’t be so good with a gun? Like I have a weird feeling we’re gonna be hearing people say all sorts of weird stuff about you soon” he said - a genuine concern for his friend.
Alex felt himself sigh in response, understanding his distress. "I know," he sighed before shifting his body weight down onto the bench as he yanked off his caked up boots and winced at the feeling of wet socks. His hands stalled at the hem of his shirt however when he noticed some of his classmates had entered the bathroom as well, seemingly having the same idea to clean up a little here before heading home.
Instead, he turned on the tap and cleaned up his arms and hands, took his towel and wet it to scrub away without taking his shirt off. Taking that off would only prompt a thousand more questions about the scars littered across his body. But even that choice was enough to start a rumor mill.
The other students would puzzle over his abilities and secrecy for days. They'd stitch together fantasies about training and camps and even kidnapping.
“I hear he’s so bruised and cut up that he gets anxious just taking his shirt off.”
“I heard someone say he’s the one that shot the PM’s hand.”
“Jahid said he’s sure that Alex is prepping for the military or something, since you need to be somewhat competent to be able to join them.” “But he’s so young!” “Yeah, but he doesn’t know what to do with his life! His parents and uncle are dead, so maybe the military is the way to go, poor guy.”
“Do you think he was on some drugs for concentration or something?"
“I knew he was dangerous, but not that dangerous!"
With a heavy sigh, he slung his backpack over his shoulders and walked past his friends and classmates in the hallway, hoping the whispers and rumors would die soon and that the school would find the next object of discussion. He just couldn’t help but be smug on the battlefield - he was in it for the love of the game, and the adrenaline had him all excited and unable to control the happiness he felt in a familiar setting.
He really should have been more careful to look more careless.