"Morning, Boss!" Jamie Weston roared, already juggling a ball, his movements sharp and confident.
"Gaffer!" Arthur Milton
click-clacked
over on his cane, his eyes sharp.
"The... asset... has arrived."
Michael looked over. And there he was. Kai Sora.
He was standing on the edge of the pristine turf, his arms crossed, his headphones on, still holding his stupid, scuffed-up basketball. He was wearing the brand-new Barnsley training kit Michael had sent him, but he’d paired it with his ripped black jeans and a pair of high-top basketball sneakers.
He looked like he was attending a costume party as "a person who has never seen a sport before."
The players... were
laughing
. It wasn’t the angry, "who-the-hell-are-you" vibe from yesterday. That was gone. Today, they were just
howling
.
"Boss! Is he... is he serious?" Finn Riley cackled, walking over, his own ’Wild Fox’ energy on full display. "Did you sign him to the... the ’Barnsley Bouncers’? Is he gonna teach us a lay-up?"
"Oi, new kid!" Jamie Weston yelled, his voice full of laughter.
"Wrong ball, mate! This one’s round!"
Kai just sighed, a deep, theatrical, "I’m-surrounded-by-idiots" sigh. He slowly pulled off his headphones, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated, 16-year-old arrogance. "Are we doing this, or what? This ’kicking’ game. I’ve got places to be."
Michael had to physically bite his cheek to stop from laughing. He looked at Arthur. Arthur just smirked.
"Alright, lads!" Arthur barked, his voice cutting through the laughter.
"The ’Bouncer’ here thinks our game is ’simple.’ He thinks it’s ’not a challenge.’ So... let’s give him one."
He pointed to the center of the pitch. "Rondo. Finn, Jamie, Danny—on the outside. ’Bouncer’... you’re in the middle."
"What?" Finn said, his laughter stopping, his face splitting into a grin of pure, malicious
joy
.
"Us
three
... against him? Gaffer, that’s not a drill. That’s a
bullying
! I love it!"
"Just. Get. In," Arthur commanded.
Kai just shrugged, tossed his basketball to Michael (who fumbled and almost dropped it), and strolled into the middle of the circle, his high-top sneakers squeaking on the grass.
"Fine. Let’s get this ’simple’ game over with."
Michael stood next to Arthur, his heart pounding.
This is it. The [CA 10] vs. the [CA 70].
The drill began. Danny Fletcher, the ’Brain’
[CA 70]
, started with the ball. He played a simple, five-yard pass to Jamie.
Jamie
[CA 67]
played it to Finn
[CA 58]
. They were just... passing it.
Zip, zip, zip.
Kai... just... stood there. He was just
watching
the ball, his head snapping back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match.
"Uh... kid?" Jamie laughed. "You’re supposed to... you know... try and
get
it!"
"I’m
analyzing
," Kai drawled.
"It’s all... triangles. Physics. Simple."
"Oh, he’s ’analyzing’!" Finn roared.
"Right! Analyze
this
, you bloody basketball nerd!"
Finn didn’t just pass the ball. He
nutmegged
Kai. A fast, vicious, disrespectful little
pop
straight through his legs, which were, of course, standing wide apart.
The entire team, who had gathered to watch the execution,
screamed
with laughter.
Kai froze. He spun around, his face a mask of pure, stunned
insult
.
"Oh, you think that’s funny?" Finn cackled, receiving the pass back.
"Come on, ’Bouncer’! Dance!"
And the humiliation began.
Finn, Jamie, and Danny, the three most talented, in-form, high-potential kids in the entire league, just...
played
with him. They passed it around him. They passed it
through
him. They bounced it over his head.
Kai, with his
[CA 10]
, was comically, almost
tragically
, bad. His feet were slow. His reactions were non-existent. He’d lunge for a ball that was already gone. He’d try to kick, and hit nothing but air. He wasn’t just a fish out of water; he was a fish on the moon.
The laughter from the players was so loud, it was almost cruel.
Michael was
dying
. He was bright red, his shoulders shaking, trying to hide his own laughter.
Oh, God. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’ve just signed the world’s most arrogant, untalented...
He stopped. He activated his system, just to
see
what a [CA 10] looked like in a state of pure despair.
[Kai Sora: CA 10 / PA 97]
And then, as Kai made a desperate, clumsy lunge and
actually touched the ball
(it bounced off his shin and went straight to Danny), Michael saw it.
A tiny, blue
flash
.
[Kai Sora: CA 11 / PA 97]
Michael
froze
. He... he’d just... his CA had just
gone up
. By one? In thirty seconds?
The drill continued. Kai, now furious, his "Short Fuse" (a hidden trait Michael hadn’t seen) clearly lit, was just...
sprinting
. He was no longer "analyzing." He was
hunting
. He was still terrible. But he was...
trying
.
He chased. He sprinted. He slid, in his
basketball shoes
, and almost,
almost
, blocked a pass.
Michael scanned him again.
[Kai Sora: CA 15 / PA 97]
"No way," Michael whispered, his laughter gone, replaced by a cold, electric shock. He... he was
learning
. His potential was so high, his brain so fast, that he was
evolving
. In real-time.
"Alright, alright! Enough!" Arthur barked, his voice full of laughter. He, too, had seen enough. "You’ve had your fun, lads! Bouncer, go see the kit man. Get some
real
boots. The rest of you, drills! Now!"
For the next hour, Michael just... watched.
Kai returned, in a pair of bright, borrowed, fluorescent-yellow boots. He looked
mortified
. Arthur didn’t put him in a 5v5. He just... had him do the most basic, simple, ’kid’s first-day-of-football’ drills. Trapping a ball. Passing it five yards to a coach.
At first, it was a comedy of errors. The ball would hit his shin and fly off at a 90-degree angle. He’d try to pass it, and it would bobble, pathetically, three feet in front of him.
But Michael just
scanned
. And scanned.
[Kai Sora: CA 25 / PA 97]
...
[Kai Sora: CA 35 / PA 97]
...
[Kai Sora: CA 44 / PA 97]
In one hour... he had jumped 34 Current Ability points. He had gone from "random civilian" to "half-decent academy player." His learning rate... it was
supernatural
.
The players, who had been laughing an hour ago, were now just...
staring
. The kid... he... he wasn’t
bad
anymore. He was still clumsy. He was still awkward. But he was
trapping
it. He was
passing
it. He was
learning
the sport, at a speed that defied all logic.
Michael, his heart a wild, frantic drum, just... clapped.
A slow, steady, awestruck clap.
The players, confused, turned to him. Michael just nodded, his eyes on Kai. "Good work, Kai. Keep it up. You’re... you’re a natural."
Kai, his face red, his chest heaving, his arrogance completely gone, just nodded, his expression one of pure, exhausted,
confused
focus. This "simple" game... it was
hard
.
"Alright!" Arthur barked.
"5v5! Let’s see what we’ve got! ’Holy Trinity,’ you’re on a team. ’Bouncer’... you’re with the Captain."
This was it. The real test.
And for the first ten minutes, Kai was, again,
terrible
. His [CA 44] was still a joke against pros. Dave Bishop tackled him just by
breathing
on him. He was weak, slow, and his first touch was, compared to theirs, like a trampoline.
But his vision...
In the 11th minute, Kai got the ball, a panicked, clumsy trap. A defender charged him. He was trapped. He was about to lose it.
And then... he didn’t. He didn’t dribble. He didn’t move. He just... passed.
A no-look, basketball-style, behind-the-back flick with the heel of his boot.
It was a ridiculous pass.
A pass that shouldn’t exist. A pass his [CA 44] body had
no right
to even
think
about.
It went
perfectly
,
impossibly
, through the legs of the defender, and landed in the path of Danny Fletcher (who Kai was playing
against
). Danny, the only one on the pitch with a brain fast enough to
read
it, just... stopped.
He stopped, his mouth open, and let the ball roll past him, too stunned to even take it.
The entire game
froze
.
Danny just... stared at Kai. Kai, seeing Danny hadn’t run, just threw his hands up.
"What? He was open! Why didn’t you
run
, man?!"
A minute later. Kai, again, just... standing. He looked "lazy." But his head was on a constant
swivel
.
Scan. Scan. Scan.
The ball came to him. A defender charged.
Kai didn’t trap it. He didn’t touch it. He just... redirected it. A one-touch, first-time,
sublime
chip, over the
entire
defense, into the path of his sprinting winger. It was a pass that Arthur would have been proud of.
The winger, stunned, shot it wide.
But the message was clear.
Arthur blew his whistle. A long, final blast. The training was over.
The players were silent. They just... looked at this new kid. This...
thing
. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t trap. He couldn’t tackle.
But he could
see
. He could see the game in a way
none
of them could. Not even Danny.
Michael walked over to Arthur, his mind reeling.
"Gaffer..."
"I know," Arthur said, his voice a low, awestruck whisper. "His... his body... it’s... it’s a [CA 44]. But his brain..."
"...is a [PA 97]," Michael finished, his voice just as quiet.
"Get them in the cryo-chambers," Arthur barked, his "Gaffer" voice returning, shaking off the awe.
"Get them home. They’re on the bus to London at 6 AM sharp."
He looked at Michael, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated, beautiful stress.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we face Chelsea."