Chapter Text
You really wish real life was like High School Musical. You've never seen high school musical but it sounds a lot more fun than High School Reality. More singing, less anxiety, more positive memes, all the things a growing kid needs. Even if your asshat of a brother is rich as satan’s devil food cake you're still in public school. Because you have to “Suffer” and all that jazz. No private tutors for Dirk Strider, just hormones and homework. You groan inwardly, scrolling through Roxy’s new blog while Mr.WhatsHisBucket drones on about Trigonometry or some shit. You could teach circles around that dinosaur but does anyone listen to the kid in pointy sunglasses?
No. Never.
They just listen to Mr. HugeCuntBasket because he has a “degree” and “Teaching credentials”. Blegh.
The bell is like an angel’s choir.
With your backpack slung over your shoulder you go to meet up with Jake, your best friend. You meant to organize a study group for your Psych final. You then realize how few friends you had in psych. A study group of two still works…
right?
You walk down to the wooded creek behind the school where you and Jake meet up. Usually you're there before him, he has a tendency to loose track of time, but today he promised he'd be there first. Still, you weren't surprised when Jake was nowhere to be found. You sit by the old evergreen tree and message him.
TT: Yo English.
TT: You there, man?
No reply, and it looks like he's offline too.
TT: C’mon Jake, did you get your phone taken by miss S again?
TT: Hiya Miss Serk, my name’s D-Stri.
TT: Ya know, I’m the kid with rad shades who's way out of English’s league.
TT: Like, way out of his league.
Still nothing. You glance around, maybe he came by and you missed him?
There's no sign of him, the little niche looks the same as always, besides some marks in the dirt where some kids probably brought a cooler in. People always came out here to get drunk or smoke weed over the weekends. You look at the marks in the dirt again. It looks like… someone was being dragged. Ugh, some guy probably passed out. His friends must've had no idea how to carry a person. Your practice with RoLal has made you quite nearly a master with heaving dead weight. You shrug and message Jake again.
TT: Listen English, you might be cute but I have to study. Meet me at my place if you decide to show.
You stand up and brush yourself off, slinging your backpack over one shoulder. You have things to do, homework to finish, you don't really have time to wait for English.
Less than half a mile away, a boy named Jake is wheezing his last breaths. Someone knocked him out with a blow to the head only a few minutes before you decided to show up. Someone dragged him away, deeper into the woods. They tore open his shirt with carefully gloved hands and felt where his ribs were. In a motion too quick to follow, they took a pen from their pocket and pushed it between two of his ribs, chuckling when his body convulses. They smile for a moment before pulling the pen out. It's followed by a splurt of blood and then another convulsion as the pen is stabbed into his other lung. The killer watches Jake’s body struggle for air. He hopes its excruciating. He hopes that even in his unconscious state, Jake can feel how much pain he deserved. When most of the bleeding has slowed and the boy’s wheezing has halted, the killer takes out another pen. A felt tipped Magic Marker. His weapon of choice had been a ballpoint but this pen wasn't for killing. It was for leaving a message. He takes the edge of Jake’s ruined shirt and wipes some of the blood away from the boy’s stomach. He uncaps his marker, flipping it over to his left hand. In impeccable script he writes across his victim’s stomach, smiling to himself. One hand creates something beautiful, swirling cursive lettering, almost like calligraphy. The other hand just stabbed a kid to death. Once he's finished writing he wrenches open the boy’s jaw, drops the marker inside, and puts Jake’s student ID in his unmoving hand. His hand that will never move again. The killer considers feeling bad for a moment before peeling his gloves off so they go inside out and dropping them in a trash bag brought for the occasion. He then glanced back at the trees that acted as his cover. He strips off the bloodied clothes, dropping them in the bag. He changes into a hoodie and jeans identical to the clothes he just ruined. He leaves his shoes, he'd been careful to keep them out of the splash zone. They were four sizes too big, stuffed with newspaper and the killer’s regular sneaker. Walking in them is weird and running is nearly impossible. If all goes according to plan, which it has so far, he shouldn't have to run. He very carefully begin to walk backwards to where he first knocked Jake out. He doesnt really have to do this, it takes a lot more effort than he'd like to admit. It also makes for fun headlines.
“Corpse found- killer disappears into thin air!”
“The Ghost At Sburb Highschool”
“Supernatural killer on the loose??”
No steps leading away, but the head wound and message should hint that this was no suicide. The killer takes almost half an hour to get back to the niche with the old evergreen tree. He scans the path created when he dragged Jake away for any evidence and spots his victim’s phone in a bush. With all the footprints in the niche it doesn't matter if he steps over and grabs the phone, heading right back to walking backwards out of the wooded creek. He walks backwards onto school grounds until he's on the sidewalk leading to the street. He takes off the shoes and shoves them in his backpack, right as the school’s friday clubs, chess and theatre, let out. Masked in the group of his peers, Caliborn calls an Uber. It's not the safest way home, of course. Who even knows who drives those things. Could be a serial killer.