The liquid in the tank tasted like pennies.
Soccer floated. He was suspended in a vertical glass tube filled with blue translucent gel. He looked like an alien experiment.
Oxygen mask on his face. Electrodes on his chest. And a pulsing, glowing cuff around his left ankle.
Week 2.
Inside the tank, there was no gravity. No up. No down.
Dr. Klaus stood outside the glass, tapping a tablet with furious speed.
"Muscle density maintenance at 98%," Klaus mumbled. "Synthetic graft integration... 100%. The bio-weave has fused with the bone marrow."
Mr. Hawk stood behind him, arms crossed. "Wake him up. It's time for phase two."
Klaus pressed a red button.
The blue gel began to drain. It gurgled, receding down the tube.
Gravity returned.
Soccer's body sagged as the weight of existence hit him. He fell to the metal grate floor of the tank. Clang.
He ripped the mask off. He gasped.
"Air," Soccer choked out. "Air is... dry."
"Get out," Klaus ordered. "Walk."
The glass door hissed open.
Soccer stepped onto the cold lab floor.
Left foot first.
He winced, expecting the sharp stabbing pain of the tear. Or the fuzzy numbness of the bruise.
There was nothing.
No pain. No stiffness.
Just... tension.
When he put his weight on his left foot, he felt something strange. The ankle didn't just support him. It pushed back.
It felt like stepping on a coiled spring.
"Weird," Soccer whispered. He bounced on his heel.
Boing.
It was subtle, but it was there. An unnatural elasticity.
"The synthetic weave has higher tensile strength than human cartilage," Klaus explained, shining a penlight into Soccer's eyes. "It stores kinetic energy. Every time you step, you load the spring. When you push off, it releases."
"Like a grasshopper?" Soccer asked, looking at his foot.
"Like a hydraulic piston," Klaus corrected. "Do not get cocky. It is strong, but the surrounding muscle is weak from two weeks of floating. To the gym."
Week 4: The Spider Web.
The "Gym" wasn't a room with weights. It was a dark chamber filled with lasers.
Red beams crisscrossed the room in a chaotic, shifting grid.
"Navigate to the other side," Klaus's voice boomed over the intercom. "Do not touch a beam. If you touch, you get shocked."
"Shocked?" Soccer blinked.
"Just 50 volts. Wake-up call."
Soccer stood barefoot at the start line.
"Go."
He moved.
He lifted his left leg. He felt the spring load.
He pushed off.
Whoosh.
He launched forward—too fast. Much faster than his brain anticipated.
His body shot across the room. He couldn't stop. He crashed into three laser beams.
ZAP. ZAP. ZAP.
"OW! YOW! HOT!"
Soccer tumbled to the floor, smoke rising from his hair.
"Control!" Klaus yelled. "You are driving a Ferrari with bicycle brakes! Adjust your force!"
Soccer rubbed his arm. It tingled.
He looked at his ankle.
On the mountain, he knew exactly how much force to use to jump from rock A to rock B. But this new ankle? It was a stranger. It was greedy. It wanted to launch him into orbit.
"Okay," Soccer whispered. "You want to fly. I get it."
He stood up.
Try again.
He stepped. He compressed the spring gently.
Click.
He hopped. A controlled, two-foot vertical hop over a low laser.
He landed silently.
The padded floor absorbed the impact, but his ankle didn't. It stored it. Ready for the next hop.
Boing.
He hopped again. And again.
By hour four, he wasn't walking. He was bouncing. A rhythmic, perpetual motion machine.
Boing-boing-boing.
He cleared the laser grid.
"Time: 12 seconds," Klaus announced. "Average human record: 45 seconds."
Soccer stood at the finish line, bouncing lightly on his toes. He wasn't tired. The new ligament did the work.
"It feels..." Soccer grinned, sweat dripping down his nose. "It feels like cheating."
"It is science," Klaus retorted. "Now do it backwards."
Week 7: The Crash Test.
Mr. Hawk stood behind bulletproof glass.
"Are you sure about this?" Hawk asked.
"The structure must be tested," Klaus said, holding a coffee mug. "Under extreme duress."
Soccer stood in the center of a circular arena.
Surrounding him were four mechanical cannons.
"Ball launchers," Klaus announced. "Loaded with weighted medicine balls. 10 pounds each."
Soccer gulped. "Balls usually weigh one pound."
"These are simulated defenders. Heavy ones. Survive for one minute."
BEEP.
Cannon One fired.
A heavy leather ball shot out at 40mph.
Soccer saw it. He didn't dodge.
"Block it!" Klaus ordered. "Test the stability!"
Soccer planted his left foot—the Titanium Ankle. He swung his right foot to clear the ball.
As he swung, the torque on his plant foot was massive. Usually, an ankle would wobble. Roll. Give way.
His left foot dug into the mat like an iron spike. It didn't budge a millimeter.
WHAM.
He volleyed the heavy medicine ball away.
Perfect stability.
Cannon Two fired. Low. Aimed right at the surgery site.
Soccer jumped.
He pushed off the left foot.
EXPLOSION.
He shot into the air. He cleared six feet easily. He grabbed the medicine ball out of the air, twisted his body, and threw it back at the cannon.
CRASH. The cannon sparked and died.
"Whoops," Soccer landed. "I broke the robot."
"He generates 20% more vertical force," Hawk read the monitor, eyes wide. "And his lateral stability is infinite. He can turn at speeds that would snap a normal ACL."
"He is not normal anymore," Klaus sipped his coffee. "He is a Prototype."
Week 8: Departure.
Soccer stood on the helipad. The wind whipped his Northwood hoodie.
He looked different.
Eight weeks of Klaus's "nutritional paste" (which tasted like blended cardboard) and zero-gravity resistance training had changed him.
He wasn't skinny anymore. He was lean, dense muscle. His shoulders had broadened. His legs looked carved from mahogany.
But the biggest difference was his walk.
There was no limp. No shuffle.
He walked with a dangerous, rhythmic bounce. Every step looked like he was about to launch into a sprint.
"Here," Klaus handed him a black metal box.
"Lunch?"
"Maintenance kit. Anti-inflammatory serums. Bracing tools. If that ankle swells even one centimeter, you call me."
"Thanks, Doc." Soccer took the box. "You're scary, but you're a good mechanic."
"Get out of here," Klaus waved him off. "Go break something so I can say 'I told you so.'"
Hawk waited by the chopper.
"Ready?"
Soccer looked at the snowy peaks one last time.
"I missed the Selection start," Soccer said. "They've been training for two weeks already."
"Yes. You are entering late. Which means you are already in the elimination zone. You have zero points."
"Points?"
"You'll see. The facility isn't a camp, Soccer. It's a pressure cooker."
Soccer hopped into the chopper.
"Pressure," Soccer tapped his new ankle. "My leg likes pressure."
The Citadel.
Three hours later.
The helicopter descended over a massive concrete complex in the middle of nowhere. It looked like a prison combined with a stadium. High walls. Floodlights. Armed guards.
NATIONAL FOOTBALL DEVELOPMENT CENTER
Code Name: THE LOCK
"There are 295 strikers down there," Hawk shouted over the rotors. "Living in dorms. Eating terrible food. Fighting for their lives."
"Only 295?" Soccer asked. "You said 300."
"Five have already quit. Broken legs. Broken spirits."
The chopper landed.
A man in a black tracksuit waited. He had a clipboard and a whistle. Coach Ego. (Not really, his name was Coach Titan, but he looked like an Ego).
"You're late," Titan barked as Soccer stepped onto the tarmac. "Late arrivals go to Building Z. The Pit."
"The Pit?"
"Lowest ranking block. You have to earn your way to the main field. Right now? You're rank 300."
Titan pointed to a heavy steel door.
"Leave your luggage. Leave your phone. Leave your past."
Soccer dropped his suitcase. He didn't have a phone (Luna had it). He touched the zipper of his hoodie.
He unzipped it. Underneath, he wore the tight black compression gear Dr. Klaus gave him.
He stepped toward the door.
He looked at the keypad.
"Does this need a code?"
"It opens for talent," Titan smirked. "Kick it."
Soccer looked at the steel door. Heavy. Reinforced.
He looked at his left foot.
Let's see.
He pulled his leg back. He didn't wind up much. Short swing.
He focused on the spring. Load. Release.
BOOM.
He kicked the door right next to the handle.
The sound was like a thunderclap inside a cave.
The steel dented. The lock mechanism shattered with a crunching sound. The door swung open violently, banging against the concrete wall.
Titan's jaw dropped. He looked at the deep indentation in the 2-inch steel.
Soccer wiggled his toes inside his black Copa Mundials.
"Knock knock," Soccer smiled.
He walked into the darkness.
Building Z: The Pit.
The room smelled of sweat and unwashed socks.
It was a massive indoor turf field, surrounded by bunk beds stacked three high against the walls.
About fifty boys were in there. Some sleeping. Some stretching. Some arguing.
They all stopped when the door banged open (and stayed open, slightly crooked).
Soccer walked in.
The room went silent.
They saw the scars on his arms. They saw the weird, predator-like bounce in his step.
A boy near the door stepped up. Big guy. Shaved head. Looked like a bully from an 80s movie.
"Who's the fresh meat?" the bully sneered. "Room's full, kid. Sleep in the hall."
Soccer looked at the bunks.
"Top bunk," Soccer said, pointing to one in the corner. "That one looks nice."
"I said—" The bully grabbed Soccer's shoulder.
Bad move.
Soccer reacted on instinct. The "Zero-Impact" reflexes Klaus trained into him.
He grabbed the bully's wrist. He didn't punch. He stepped.
He stepped into the bully's space with his left foot.
The Spring Step.
The explosive force of the step transferred through his hip. He simply body-checked the bully.
The bully flew.
Not tripped. Flew. Three meters back, crashing into a pile of laundry bags.
The room gasped.
Soccer didn't look back. He walked to the corner bunk. He hopped—an effortless six-foot vertical leap—and landed on the top mattress without using the ladder.
He looked down at the fifty faces staring up at him.
"Hi," Soccer beamed. "I'm Soccer. Is dinner soon? I'm starving."
A skinny kid with glasses whisper-yelled to his friend.
"That's him... that's the one from the Northwood videos. The Anomaly."
"He looks different," the friend whispered back. "He looks... heavy."
"Attention!"
A speaker on the wall crackled to life.
"Welcome, Rank 300. Evaluation begins in 5 minutes. Objective: Last Man Standing."
The floor of the indoor field began to vibrate. Panels opened up.
Soccer looked over the edge of his bunk.
Balls were shooting out of the floor. Fifty of them.
And one target appeared on the far wall. A glowing holographic goal with a moving red bullseye.
"Rule: Hit the target. The player with the fewest hits in 10 minutes is eliminated. Permanently."
Panic erupted in The Pit. Fifty boys scrambled for fifty balls.
Soccer lay on his pillow for a second.
Elimination.
He smiled.
Klaus was boring. This... this is fun.
He rolled off the bunk. He didn't climb down. He just dropped.
He landed on his left foot.
The floor shook.
"Okay," Soccer whispered, eyeing a loose ball. "Let's calibrate the gun."