Chapter 8: Trial by Fire
The football hit my chest like a thrown brick.
I caught it anyway, tucking it tight against my ribs as I sprinted toward the end zone. My legs pumped harder than they should have—I had to force myself to slow down, to look human.
[PHYSICAL OUTPUT: 12%. RECOMMEND: REDUCE TO 8% FOR OPTIMAL CONCEALMENT.]
I know, I know.
"Harrison! Nice catch!" Coach Walt Arnold's voice boomed across the field. "Fordman, you see that? That's how you receive!"
Whitney Fordman, starting quarterback and apparent golden boy of Smallville football, jogged over to collect the ball. His expression was carefully neutral, but I caught the flicker of irritation in his eyes.
"Lucky grab," he said.
"Lucky's fine with me."
Whitney snorted, almost friendly, and headed back to the line. I took my position, stretching legs that weren't tired at all while pretending they were.
Football tryouts had been a calculated risk. The sport put me close to Coach Walt without requiring explanation. It also meant hiding my enhanced abilities in an environment designed to showcase athletic prowess.
Every catch had to be "good but not impossible." Every sprint had to be "fast but not superhuman." Every tackle had to connect with force that bruised but didn't break.
[STRENGTH OUTPUT STABLE. CONCEALMENT PARAMETERS MAINTAINED.]
Three days of practice. Three days of watching Coach Walt for signs of the pyrokinesis I knew was coming.
Today, I saw it.
The junior who dropped the pass was named Kevin something. He was apologizing before he hit the ground, hands up in surrender.
"Sorry, Coach! The sun was in my—"
"THE SUN?" Walt's voice cracked like a whip. "THE SUN WAS IN YOUR EYES?"
The air shimmered. Not heat-haze from the afternoon sun—something else. Something that radiated from Walt's clenched fists like waves from a struck bell.
The grass at his feet turned brown. Then black. Smoke curled up in thin wisps that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.
Kevin scrambled backward. The other players stood frozen.
And across the field, Clark Kent met my eyes.
He sees it too.
Clark's expression was carefully blank, but I recognized what lurked beneath—the same calculation I was running. How dangerous? How soon? Who's at risk?
"Run it again," Walt growled. The shimmer faded. The grass beneath his feet was still charred, but no one seemed to notice. "And this time, catch the ball."
Practice continued. I went through the motions, but my attention stayed fixed on Walt. The way his neck flushed red when a play went wrong. The slight tremor in his hands after he shouted. The scorch marks that appeared wherever he stood too long.
[METEOR-AFFECTED INDIVIDUAL CONFIRMED. POWER TYPE: PYROKINESIS. THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE-HIGH. INSTABILITY INDICATORS: ELEVATED.]
Tell me something I don't know.
The equipment shed was supposed to be locked after practice.
I'd noticed the door hanging open when I doubled back for my "forgotten" water bottle. Coincidence? Maybe. But coincidences in Smallville tended to have claws.
Voices drifted through the gap. Walt's rumble. Someone younger, higher—a student.
"I don't care what your father said. You committed to this team."
"Coach, I can't—my grades are—"
"Your grades are fine. You're quitting because you're weak. Just like your father."
"Coach, please—"
The air changed. That shimmer again, stronger now. Heat pressed against my face like an open oven door.
I pressed my eye to the gap between the door and frame.
Walt stood with his back to me, shoulders hunched forward. His hands hung at his sides, and they were glowing. Not metaphorically—actual light emanated from his palms, orange and flickering.
The student—a junior named Marcus, I thought—backed toward the wall. His face had gone pale as milk.
"Coach? What's—what's happening to your hands?"
"Nothing." Walt's voice was thick, strained. "Nothing's happening. Get out."
"But—"
"GET OUT!"
Fire erupted.
Not a burst—a wall of flame that swept across the shed's interior like a wave. Marcus screamed and dove through a side window. Glass shattered. The heat hit me like a fist.
I stumbled back as the door ignited. Fire licked up the wooden frame, spreading across the dry boards with terrible speed.
[DANGER: FIRE SPREADING. STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. RECOMMEND: IMMEDIATE WITHDRAWAL.]
No argument here.
I ran. Not toward safety—toward the school. Toward the fire alarm I knew was around the corner.
My palm slammed against the glass-covered handle. The alarm shrieked to life. Sprinklers activated across the building.
By the time I circled back, other students were emerging. Marcus sat on the grass, coughing, his arm scorched but not badly burned. Someone was calling 911.
And Coach Walt walked toward his car like nothing had happened, leaving behind a shed that was already half-consumed by flames that no natural fire should have spread so fast.
The locker room was quiet afterward. Most players had gone home. I sat on a bench, pretending to tie my shoes, actually just trying to stop my hands from shaking.
Whitney Fordman dropped onto the bench beside me.
"Hell of a first week, huh?"
"Something like that."
"Coach gets intense sometimes." Whitney's voice was carefully neutral. "Fire department's saying it was an electrical thing. Faulty wiring."
Sure it was.
"Makes sense," I said.
Whitney studied me for a moment. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find it.
"You're fast," he said. "We need fast. Stick around, Harrison. You might actually be useful."
He clapped my shoulder and walked out.
I sat in the empty locker room for another five minutes, breathing through the lingering smell of smoke in my lungs. The shaking in my hands slowly subsided.
[STRESS RESPONSE: IMPROVING. COMBAT READINESS INDEX: +2%.]
Progress. Slow progress, but progress.
Outside, Walt's car was gone. The shed was a smoking skeleton. And somewhere out there, Clark Kent was probably already planning his next move.
Be ready. The coach isn't done.
I grabbed my bag and headed home, already mapping the route to Principal Kwan's office.
Want more? The story continues on Patreon!
If you can't wait for the weekly release, you can grab +10, +15, or +20 chapters ahead of time on my Patreon page. Your support helps me keep this System running!
Read ahead here: [ patreon.com/system_enjoyer ]