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The tinny metal ring of the morning bell reverberates in the empty locker room, jerking me awake and assaulting my aching head.
Groaning, I open my eyes, vision grainy from the long hours of unconsciousness. There's not much to see in the dark, windowless room; the only light comes from the red numbers on the digital wall clock, telling me it's 08:00.
8 o'clock what day, though? The bells don't sound over the weekend. How long have I been in this locker room?
How long before I'm discovered?
I need to get out of here.
My left wrist is still tied to the bench, but my right hand has been cut loose. No doubt the assholes who ditched me thought I'd eventually wake up and get myself home. Couldn't be bothered to fully free me, though, the bastards.
With a herculean effort, I sit up. My entire body aches, but it's a duller pain than I expected. The pounding in my head, however, is anything but dull; it feels like there's a tiny striker in my brain, kicking penalty shots against my skull like it's a rebounder net.
Ignoring it as best I can, with shaking fingers, I finally free myself. My left wrist is an angry raised welt of rope burn, but I can flex my fingers fine, so I doubt permanent damage has been done.
Suddenly, my heart stops, as I remember the earsplitting crack of breaking bone.
My wrist isn't what I should be worried about.
Heart squeezing in my chest, I look down at my leg. Covered by my black tapered athletic trousers, it looks innocuous, normal. My hands tremble as I slowly, slowly reach out to verify the extent of the damage Derrick inflicted.
Nothing.
There's nothing.
I slide my hands along my shin and knee more firmly, and I can't feel so much as a bruise, let alone a splintered tibia.
"How is this possible?" I whisper, wide-eyed in disbelief.
I'm not really asking anyone particular, but a very particular voice answers anyway. It's a voice like moonlight, and when it speaks in my mind, everything stills. Even the tiny footballer stops kicking at my skull.
{The damage to your leg was deemed too detrimental to your future development. All broken bones, including your ruptured ear drum, have been healed. Unfortunately, all injuries sustained prior to this incident were not under my purview, and have therefore been maintained.}
Abruptly, I remember warm white light and an angelic voice.
Holy shit, that was real?
That beautiful System voice giggles, AGAIN, and I lose my damn mind.
HOLY SHIT THAT WAS REAL.
Fuck, I fucking DIED.
And now I'm alive AGAIN.
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.
{You seemed to be taking this better in the safety of the System Space.}
"You think?!" I snap, clutching my chest to keep my crazed heart from thudding its way out of my ribcage.
I mean, yeah, it's one thing to believe you're the protag of a sci-fi novel when you're all floaty and warm and not-God's talking in your ear, but it's an entirely different thing to wake up in a dingy locker room, covered in bruises, and be like, "Wow, I am totally gonna be a world-class superstar once I get out of these piss-stained clothes and wash off the blood, dirt, and spit covering my body."
{Regardless, that IS the reality of your situation. You are both Aidan Kane, future champion, and Aidan Kane, bullied minor currently wallowing in a locker room.}
Ouch. Who knew my System was such a hardass?
{Lesson One: A good forward knows when to charge ahead alone, and when to pass and find a better position. Challenge: Collect your belongings, walk out the door of this concrete-and-metal cave, and find help. Do what you need to create space and move into a better position.}
I wrinkle my nose, confused. "Help? But I'm fine? You already fixed all the real damage."
{I fixed your broken bones. You have been unconscious on the floor for three days, mutilated by a group of children who don't even believe they've done something wrong. Your own teammates. Your cousin. I haven't even begun to heal the real damage.}
"Are you a System or a shrink?" I cross my arms, petulant and annoyed and determined to ignore the curdling pit of fear in my stomach at the reminder that my life is a horrifying shitshow.
The System ignores me far better.
{Reward: [System Restore] – When you spend your sleeping hours working to improve in the System Space, your body will restore itself. The harder you work, the better your muscles will heal and the more stamina you'll recover.}
My arms uncross as I unconsciously sit up straighter, practically drooling over the cheat of a reward dangling in front of me.
What would it be like to wake up refreshed and stronger after a day of intense work? No more next-day fatigue or second-day soreness (which is often so much worse than the first day after a crazy hard workout)?
{Penalty: [Football Hellscape] – Six Hours}
What the?
"That's it? No other explanation?"
{You have one day to complete this Challenge.}
I try to ask more questions, but the System has either left or is refusing to acknowledge me.
Disgruntled, I nonetheless lurch to my feet, stagger to turn on the lights, and gather my meager belongings. I repeat the System's enigmatic words as I strip out of my disgusting clothes, and I realize why no one's come bursting into the locker room to get changed for first period P.E.
It's Labor Day Monday. No school. No hallways of teeming kids, ready to freak the fuck out because I look like a homicide victim.
Because I am a homicide victim.
Damn.
That's fucked up.
I shake my head to clear it, which I immediately regret, because the little striker in my brain renews his skull kicks.
Grimacing, I pull on clean jeans and a t-shirt. Like most of my belongings, it's an ill-fitting hand-me-down from Derrick, this one emblazoned with some shit band he liked back in middle school.
(I drew the line when Aunt Kathy tried to foist Derrick's freaking Nickelback concert merch on me, though. That shirt met an unfortunate accident before I ever had to wear it in public. My aunt smacked me about a dozen times for being "an irresponsible little shit," but it was 100% worth it.)
I want to throw away everything I'd been wearing, except the trash is empty from when the janitors took out the garbage during practice last Friday, and I don't want to risk anyone seeing my torn, bloody, piss-soaked clothes.
So instead, I ball up the clothes and shove them into a plastic bag, then shove that into another two plastic bags, to really make sure the smells can't infect the rest of my stuff, before sticking the bundle in my gym bag.
Thankfully, the assholes didn't ruin my cleats. They're a little bloody, but nothing too bad, and if I'm going to somehow become a soccer god, I'ma need my cleats.
Besides, they're one of the only things I own that I received new. They fit perfectly; they're even my favorite color, green.
I think of the person who gave them to me, and I think of the stupid "challenge" from my System.
Get help.
Rory.
I consider it. Of course I do. She's always who I think of, when things are the worst.
And then I discard the idea, same as I always do.
I can't put this on her.
It's my problem.
With a sigh, I sling my backpack onto one shoulder and hoist my gym duffel onto the other. My shoulders and ribs scream a little, but the pain's easy to ignore when I think of how bad I could be feeling right now.
Stiff and sore, and generally feeling about as shitty as I must look, I walk out of the locker room into what I expect to be a deserted hallway.
Except it's not.
Turns out, those hardworking custodians don't have a holiday today, like the rest of us.
And turns out, I greatly underestimated how shitty I look.
The most reasonable response to my sudden appearance is the younger janitor dropping his giant mop and screaming:
"OH MY GOD, CALL 911, WE GOT A HALF-DEAD KID IN THE BUILDING!"
The less reasonable response comes from Mervin, the hunched, wrinkled head custodian who's been working at the school longer than most of the teachers have been alive:
"That's not half-dead! THAT KID DEAD-DEAD. He the ghost of a bullied kid, roaming the halls for eternity!"
I sigh again, and hitch my bags higher up on my shoulders.
Then I can't help it.
"Boo," I say, and all hell breaks loose.