The fluorescent lights of the school hallway hummed, a discordant melody I hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime. My boots, usually caked in mud and grime, felt alienly light on the polished linoleum. This wasn't the dust-choked streets of Urzikstan, or the claustrophobic alleys of London. This was… high school.
I looked down at my hands, smaller, softer than the calloused ones I knew so well. The veins weren't as prominent, the knuckles less scarred. I was back. Back in the body of the awkward, spotty teenager I'd long since buried under layers of fatigue and tactical gear.
I caught my reflection in the glass of a trophy case. The face staring back at me was undeniably mine, but younger, almost… innocent. Gone was the hardened gaze, replaced by a nervous uncertainty. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the familiar prickle of short, unkempt strands. This was me, before the SAS, before the horrors, before the weight of the world settled on my shoulders. This was Gaz before he was Gaz.
It was jarring, to say the least. I still carried the memories, the instincts, the very essence of the man I'd become. I had a lifetime of combat experience crammed into a teenage skull, a strange dissonance that sent a shiver down my spine. I knew how to breach a door, disarm an IED, and make a perfect cup of tea under fire, but I had no idea how to remember my locker combination.
The bell shrieked, sending a wave of bodies surging through the corridor. I felt a surge of panic, a primal fear that had nothing to do with bullets or bombs. It was the fear of being lost, of being out of place, of being… just a school kid.
A lanky kid with floppy brown hair and a nervous laugh bumped into me. "Whoa, sorry, dude," he said, his voice still cracking.
I recognized him – Jamie, the guy who always struggled with the math homework. I knew, instinctively, he was going to trip over his own feet in five minutes, spilling his lunch all over the floor. I also knew, vividly, how he ended up as a medic in the local reserve unit, a solid guy, even if he never stopped tripping.
"No worries," I managed, my voice sounding strangely high-pitched and unfamiliar. I remembered the gruff, low tone I'd worked so hard to achieve, the voice that commanded respect and conveyed a certain quiet authority. This boyish timbre was a betrayal.
I navigated the crowded hallway, my senses heightened. I scanned the faces, identifying potential threats – over-zealous hall monitors, territorial jocks, the awkward kid who would try to start a fight in the bathroom. I knew their routines, their weaknesses, their potential for disruption. It was a ridiculous notion, analyzing high school students like they were enemy combatants. But the training was ingrained, it was who I was now.
I found my assigned classroom, a dull, beige box that smelled faintly of old textbooks and stale pizza. The teacher, a woman with frizzy blonde hair and a perpetually tired expression, called my name.
"Gaz… welcome back, I guess." Her tone was laced with a weary resignation. Clearly, my previous academic performance hadn't left a stellar impression. I tried to conjure up a memory of my classes, but all I could recall was the endless drone of lectures, a stark contrast to the urgent whispers of tactical briefings.
Sitting at a desk, my hand trembled slightly as I picked up a pencil. I remembered how to calculate the area of a triangle using the formula, of course, but what was the point? What did this have to do with…anything? I felt a surge of frustration. Hours spent memorizing theorems felt utterly meaningless compared to the weight of a mission gone south, the taste of blood and gunpowder, the faces of men I'd lost.
For the first time, I felt the full weight of the knowledge I carried. I knew the history that lay ahead. I knew the wars, the betrayals, the sacrifices. I knew the men and women who would be lost, and I knew – with a soul-crushing certainty – that they were still just kids, like the ones that sat around me in that classroom.
I looked around at those faces, some focused, some bored, some simply trying to survive the day. A wave of protectiveness washed over me, a fierce, almost overwhelming urge to shield them from the darkness that lay ahead. I wanted to teach them, not trigonometry, but how to survive, to protect each other, to appreciate the fragile gift of life.
But I couldn't. I was just a kid again, trapped in a body that couldn't keep up with the man inside. I was a ghost, a soldier lost in time, forced to navigate a world of textbooks and teenage angst, a world that felt utterly surreal and utterly pointless.
The bell rang, releasing the students into the hallway. As I walked out, I glanced at my reflection again. The uncertain gaze of the teenager was still there, but I thought I saw something else now – a flicker of steel, a hint of the man I had become. And I knew, with a quiet resolve, that even in this strange, disorienting landscape, the soldier in me would find a way to survive. I was Gaz, even in high school, and survival, no matter what form it took, was all I knew how to do.