Airports smell like anxious sweat and expensive coffee.
Soccer sat in his wheelchair at Gate B4, his purple cast propped up on his suitcase. He wore a Northwood High hoodie that was two sizes too big.
It was his last ten minutes in Metropolis.
Standing around him was the pack.
Marcus Kane looked devastated. The tough-guy captain was sniffing loudly, pretending he had allergies. Dylan Foster was openly sobbing into a tissue.
"You're abandoning us," Dylan wailed. "Who's gonna catch the falling birds now? I can't jump that high!"
"You don't need to jump," Soccer said, poking Dylan's leg with his crutch. "You're an earthworm now. Earthworms are cool. They turn dirt into life."
"That's disgusting," Dylan sniffled. "But thank you."
Marcus stepped forward. He held out a hand.
"Don't get soft up there," Marcus warned. "The National Training Center... they eat weaklings. Hawk told me the washout rate is 40%."
"I'm not soft," Soccer touched his cast. "I'm crunchy. Especially here."
Marcus laughed, a short bark. He leaned in and hugged Soccer. A hard, rib-crushing hug.
"Go conquer the world, Assassin. We'll hold the fort down here."
Luna Reeves stepped up last. She was holding a small notebook.
She didn't cry. Managers don't cry. Managers organize.
"Here." She placed the notebook on his lap.
"Homework?" Soccer frowned.
"English," Luna said. "And math. And survival tips for dealing with press conferences. Also..."
She leaned down. Her hair smelled like strawberries—a sharp contrast to the jet fuel wafting from the runway.
"I put a picture in there. Of the team holding the trophy."
"So I don't forget you?"
"So you remember why you fight." Luna straightened up, adjusting her glasses to hide her glossy eyes. "Text us. Don't be a mountain hermit who forgets technology exists."
"I'll try," Soccer promised. "But buttons are small."
"Boarding for Flight 808 to Zurich," the intercom crackled.
Mr. Hawk stood by the gate desk, checking his watch. "Time to go, son."
Soccer grabbed his crutches. He levered himself up.
He looked at his friends one last time.
In the mountains, wolf pups leave the den eventually. They have to finding their own territory. If they stay, the pack starves.
"Hey!" Soccer shouted, stopping the flow of passengers.
The team looked at him.
Soccer raised a fist.
"If you stop running, I'll know! I have... predator senses!"
Marcus raised a fist back. "Run fast, Soccer."
Soccer turned. He swung his crutches.
Squeak-step. Squeak-step.
Into the jet bridge. Toward the metal eagle. Toward the unknown.
Somewhere Over the Atlantic
The plane shook.
Soccer pressed his face against the window. Below him, the ocean looked like wrinkled blue plastic.
"It's high," Soccer noted. "Higher than Eagle's Peak."
Mr. Hawk sat next to him, sipping sparkling water. He was reading a dossier on a tablet.
"Are you scared of heights?" Hawk asked.
"No. I'm scared of that sound." Soccer pointed at the engine wing. "It's screaming."
"That's thrust. 70,000 pounds of it." Hawk swiped the tablet screen. "Get some sleep, Soccer. You'll need it. We land in Zurich in six hours. Then a helicopter to the Alpine Medical Institute."
"Helicopter?" Soccer's eyes widened. "Like a dragonfly?"
"Sure. A dragonfly that costs ten million dollars."
Hawk tapped the screen again.
"The doctor you're seeing... Dr. Klaus. He's not a normal doctor. He repairs Formula 1 drivers after crashes. He fixed Ronaldo's knee in 2016. He fixed Vincent Drake's shoulder last year."
Soccer blinked. "Drake was broken?"
"Drake breaks himself every season," Hawk said calmly. "Great weapons require maintenance. Dr. Klaus is the mechanic."
Hawk leaned back.
"He's going to hurt you, Soccer. The rehab isn't gentle stretches and yoga balls. It's reconstruction. He's going to tear down that mess of scar tissue you call an ankle and build a functional joint."
Soccer looked at his purple cast.
"Will I be stronger?"
"If you survive the therapy? You'll be titanium."
The Alpine Medical Institute. Switzerland.
It didn't look like a hospital.
It looked like a villain's lair from a spy movie.
A massive glass-and-steel structure built into the side of a snowy mountain. The helicopter landed on a pad that seemed to hang over a sheer drop.
The air was thin. Cold. Crisp.
Soccer stepped out onto the pad (on crutches). He inhaled deeply.
His lungs expanded.
This smell.
It smelled of ice. Of pine needles frozen in amber. Of raw, unfiltered altitude.
"Home," Soccer whispered.
A team of orderlies in white tracksuits rushed out. They grabbed his luggage. They practically lifted him into a wheelchair.
"Schnell, schnell!" one muttered. "Dr. Klaus waits for no one."
They wheeled him through corridors that looked more like spaceship hallways. Brushed aluminum. LED strips. The silence was absolute.
They burst into a large circular room.
In the center was a silver table.
Surrounded by robotic arms. Monitors. Lasers.
And a man.
Dr. Klaus was short. Bald. He wore circular glasses with red rims. He was inspecting a scalpel like it was a holy relic.
"Is this the specimen?" Klaus didn't look up. His accent was thick, precise.
"This is Soccer," Hawk introduced. "The boy with the granite ankles."
Klaus turned. He walked over to the wheelchair. He didn't say hello. He grabbed Soccer's purple cast.
He produced a vibrating saw from his pocket.
BZZZZZT.
He cut the cast off in four seconds flat. He peeled the fiberglass away.
Soccer's leg was revealed.
It was hideous. Purple. Yellow. Swollen. The skin looked stretched to the breaking point.
Klaus stared at it.
"Disgusting," Klaus breathed. He sounded delighted. "It is a catastrophe of biology."
He poked the swollen mass.
"Does this hurt?"
"Only when you poke it."
"Good." Klaus turned to his screens. "I see the scans. Anterior talofibular ligament rupture. Calcaneofibular strain. Bone bruising on the talus dome."
Klaus spun around.
"You walked on this?"
"I hopped," Soccer corrected.
"You hopped," Klaus chuckled darkly. "You played ninety minutes of high-intensity sport on a joint that was held together by tape and sheer stupidity."
"We won," Soccer pointed out.
"Of course you won. The body creates adrenaline to mask death. You were chemically dead from the knee down."
Klaus snapped his fingers. The table tilted.
"Get on."
Soccer hopped onto the cold silver table.
"Are we fixing it now?"
"We are starting now," Klaus adjusted the overhead lights. They blinded Soccer. "I am going to graft a synthetic tendon weave into your ankle. It is experimental. It is used for bio-mechanical soldiers, not teenagers."
Hawk stepped forward. "Is it legal for FIFA?"
"It is biological material," Klaus dismissed. "Grown in a lab, but biological. Perfectly legal. And perfectly durable."
Klaus leaned over Soccer. His glasses reflected the boy's wide grey eyes.
"Listen to me, boy. The surgery is the easy part. The rehabilitation... that is where the torture begins. I will put you in the Zero-Gravity Chamber. I will use electro-shock stimulation. You will wish I had just cut the foot off."
Soccer lay back. The silver table was freezing against his back.
He thought of the pool. The heavy water.
He thought of Zero catching the ball with one hand.
He thought of Kai Rivers juggling with dress shoes.
"Dr. Klaus," Soccer said.
"Ja?"
"Make it tight."
Klaus paused. "Excuse me?"
"My old ankle... it was loose. The rocks made it wobbly. I want this one tight. Like a loaded spring."
Klaus smiled behind his mask. A terrifying, surgical smile.
"A spring," Klaus nodded to the anesthesiologist. "Yes. We can do that."
The gas mask descended over Soccer's face.
"Count backward from ten," a voice said.
"Ten," Soccer mumbled.
"Nine."
"Zero," Soccer whispered.
The world went white.
Two Days Later.
Waking up felt like surfacing from the deep end of the pool, but the water was made of concrete.
Soccer blinked.
White ceiling. Beeping monitor. A view of snow-capped peaks through a massive window.
He tried to move his leg.
He couldn't. It was encased in a futuristic, clear brace with tubes running into it. Blue fluid pulsed through the tubes.
"He awakens," Dr. Klaus's voice came from the corner.
Soccer turned his head. His throat felt like sandpaper.
"Water?"
"In a moment." Klaus checked the monitor. "The graft held. Your body accepted the synthetic weave. Your recovery rate is... abnormal."
"Abnormal good?"
"Abnormal terrifying. Your white blood cell count stabilized in half the projected time. Are you part lizard?"
"Maybe," Soccer croaked. "I ate some lizards once. Survival training."
Klaus stared at him. Then shook his head. "American education system..."
The door slid open.
Mr. Hawk walked in. He looked serious.
"Welcome back to the land of the living."
"Did I miss the World Cup?"
"No. But you missed the selection announcement."
Hawk turned on the wall-screen.
A news broadcast was playing.
U-18 WORLD YOUTH CUP: ROSTER SELECTION PHASE BEGINS.
The screen showed images of players. Top talents from across the nation.
VINCENT DRAKE (FW)
KAI RIVERS (FW)
ZERO (GK)
SILAS VANCE (MF)
Dozens of faces. The best of the best.
And then... a silhouette. No photo. Just a name.
SOCCER (FW)
Status: Injured Reserve / Pending.
"They kept a spot for me?" Soccer asked, rubbing his eyes.
"A provisional spot," Hawk said. "Blue Lock—sorry, force of habit—the National Project begins in eight weeks. Three hundred strikers enter. Five stay."
"Three hundred?" Soccer sat up, ignoring the dizziness. "That's a big pack."
"It's not a pack, Soccer," Hawk said gravely. "It's a battle royale. You sleep there. You eat there. You fight there. If you lose, your national career ends permanently. You are banned from ever playing for the country again."
High stakes. Absolute consequences.
Soccer looked at the clear brace pumping blue fluid into his ankle.
"I need to run," Soccer said.
"Not yet," Klaus snapped. "For two weeks, you stay in the tank. Then, we start gravity training."
Hawk walked to the window.
"While you sleep, Soccer, they are training. Kai Rivers has rented a private island for high-altitude sprints. Vincent Drake is wrestling bears in Russia. I'm not joking."
Hawk turned back.
"They know you're coming. And they aren't waiting."
Soccer laid his head back on the pillow.
He looked at the snow outside.
A storm was brewing. Clouds swirling around the peaks.
"Let them train," Soccer whispered.
He closed his eyes, visualizing the carbon weave knitting into his bone.
"A bear gets stronger by wrestling," Soccer smiled sleepily. "But an assassin gets stronger by resting."
He tapped the clear brace.
"Wake me up when it's time to kill."