Shelton High School, Shelton, Washington.

Tim was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Not only had he gotten in an argument with his partner early in the day, but he had also been objectively wrong in it. The truck he drove wasn’t actually a part of his cover; it’d belonged to his actual father, William Todd, and had been left to him after his dad had passed to prostate cancer. So it actually MEANT something to him on a very personal level.

Thus, he was rather reactive when it came to the venerable piece of Detroit steel and ingenuity. Even though it had... personality, he’d always believed it would come through for him no matter what he put it through on any given day.

That belief had lasted until precisely this day, when the truck he’d always put his faith in had completely broken down. With a resounding bang and a heartwrenching thud, the transmission fell out of the bottom of the chassis and the engine blew the hood back against the window as it did its level best to break the olympic standing high jump record. Tim, or rather, Jason Todd, was completely heartbroken.

Not only that, but the public transportation network in Shelton was very backward and he was nowhere near a stop that would allow him to take the bus to school. Thus, he had to walk a little over five miles to get there. Now, five miles was nothing but a brief jaunt to a reaper like him, but as he was undercover, he had to maintain the standard of an average person. And to an average person, five miles was a long, long way.

It would have been one thing, had his cover been in the Army or Marine Corps, but it’d put him with a history in the US Navy instead. So not only did he have to pretend he had the fitness of an average person, that average person had to be a Navy veteran, none of whom were exactly known for their long-distance run times.

Neither were high school gym teachers, for that matter. Most of them were high school athletes that went to college on athletic scholarships and dreamed of making it in the Big Leagues, only for the harsh jackboot of reality to come stomping down on the fragile flower of their idealized future. Thus, embittered and frustrated, they returned to their glory days as washed up never-weres to “nurture” the next generation.

Long story short, Tim only arrived at his workplace a full half hour after the bell for first period had rung. It was a less than ideal beginning to his fictional career, unlike his “wife”, Siobhan, who had arrived hours early thanks to the difference between a high school and a courthouse schedule.

He was met in the parking lot by a skinny, sour-faced old lady whose mouth looked like she had always just eaten a spoonful of pure concentrated citric acid. She had a traditional men’s haircut—trimmed short on the sides and back, and to a length of three to four inches on top, combed into a 70/30 part—and her hair was as gray as burned charcoal. She was riding in a golf cart and carrying a clipboard, patrolling the parking lot and school grounds to catch students in the act of arriving late or leaving early.

Thankfully, Tim looked nothing like a student.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” the old lady asked in a combative tone. “I don’t remember you being one of the parents at our school, so you shouldn’t be here!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tim replied, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m the new gym teacher, Tim Roberts. My truck broke down a couple miles out and I had to walk the rest of the way, so I’m a bit late.”

The old lady frowned, disapproval obvious in her gaze.

“Can you show me where the office is? I need to let them know that I’m here and meet with the principal, Mr. Dorsey,” Tim politely asked.

“Through the double doors and down the hall to your right. There’s a sign. Not even a gym teacher can miss it,” the old lady spat, then gave him another disapproving look and a cold snort before driving her golf cart away.

“Well she was... pleasant,” Tim muttered under his breath as he headed toward the main entrance of the school.

......

Inside the school, the principal, James Dorsey, heard a knock on his door. Glancing at his already overflowing inbox, he sighed and said, “Come in.”

His secretary, Amelia Ford, walked through the door, followed by a tall, muscular man with strong features wearing a matching set of light green Nike sportswear. “I have Mr. Roberts here to see you, Mr. Dorsey,” she belatedly announced.

Inwardly complaining about his idiot secretary, Principal Dorsey could only put on a stern face and say, “I see that, Miss Ford. I have eyes, you know.”

Amelia blushed and stammered an apology.

“Next time, use the intercom. That’s what it’s for, Miss Ford. You’re excused,” the principal reprimanded her. He turned to Tim and said, “You’re late, Mr. Roberts. Not exactly the best first impression.”

“I know, sir.” Tim snapped to attention; that was just the kind of authoritarian vibe he felt from the principal seated in front of him. “No excuses, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Relax, boy,” the principal chuckled. “I won’t eat you.” He picked up the handset of his phone and dialed a four-digit internal switchboard extension. “Miss Coleman, please come to my office,” he said after the line connected.

Not even four minutes later, a woman in her early thirties with her hair in a high ponytail stepped through the principal’s door. She, too, was wearing sportswear, but hers was a black Adidas tracksuit. “You called, boss?” she asked in a chirpy, sickeningly sweet voice. Tim could practically hear the chewing and popping of bubble gum in it, despite her not actually having any gum in her mouth.

“This is Mr. Roberts, the boys’ gym teacher. Take him around and show him the ropes,” the principal ordered.

“Yes boss, right away boss!” the overly bubbly woman replied.

Tim, on the other hand, felt an oncoming headache. He had already mapped the entire school, thanks to his implants, and he had a feeling that his mission would be far more difficult than the briefing had led him to believe. And far more headache-inducing, as well.