Civilization smelled weird.
It smelled like exhaust fumes, deep-fried oil, and stale perfume.
Soccer sat on the edge of the team bench, staring at the roll of silver duct tape holding his right sneaker together. It looked like a robot's bandage.
"It's a tragedy," a voice said.
Soccer looked up. Luna stood there. She wasn't wearing the fierce "Manager Mode" expression today. She looked... normal. Jeans. A white tee. Hair loose.
She was city-pretty. The kind of pretty that didn't know how to gut a fish or build a shelter, but knew how to navigate this concrete maze.
"My shoe?" Soccer wiggled his toe. The tape crinkled.
"Your dignity," Luna corrected. She tossed a car key in her hand. "Get up. Coach gave me the team credit card."
Soccer blinked. "Credits? Like in a video game?"
Luna pinched the bridge of her nose. "Money. We're buying you cleats. Real ones. Before you trip on that tape and break your neck."
"I don't trip," Soccer said seriously. "I told you. Rocks move. I move with them."
"This isn't a rock, Soccer. It's a dying piece of rubber. Get in the car."
The sports store was a cathedral of consumerism.
SportWorld.
Fluorescent lights buzzed like angry hornets overhead. The air smelled of synthetic rubber and fresh cardboard. Walls were lined with shoes in colors that shouldn't exist in nature—neon pink, nuclear green, electric orange.
Soccer's eyes went wide.
"Whoa." He reached out and touched a mannequin wearing a compression shirt. "Is this guy frozen?"
"He's plastic, Soccer. Don't touch him." Luna steered him toward the back wall. "We need 'Football - Men's. Turf and Firm Ground.'"
They reached the holy wall of cleats.
A clerk drifted over. He was a skinny teenager with a name tag that read Kyle and a haircut that cost more than Soccer's entire life.
"Can I help you guys?" Kyle asked, eyes flickering judgmentally to Soccer's taped-up abominations.
"We need performance cleats," Luna took charge. "Forward position. Size... what size are you?"
Soccer shrugged. "I wear whatever I find. These were my dad's, I think. Or maybe they washed down the river."
Kyle's customer service smile faltered. "Right. Let's measure you."
He pulled out a Brannock device—that metal slider thing.
"Sit," Kyle commanded, pointing to the stool.
Soccer sat. He reached down and untied the messy laces. He peeled off the silver tape. Rrrrip. Then he slid off the gray sneaker.
Then the sock.
Kyle gasped.
It was an audible sound. A sharp intake of breath.
Soccer's foot didn't look human.
It was wide. Much wider than a normal foot. The arch was incredibly high, a taut bridge of muscle. The skin wasn't skin—it was leather. Thick, callous pads covered the ball of the foot and the heel, yellowish and rock-hard.
But the toes.
The toes were spread out, not squished together. They looked independent. Dexterous. Like they could grab onto a cliff face and hold his entire body weight.
"Jesus," Kyle whispered. "Do you run on sandpaper?"
"Granite, mostly," Soccer answered cheerfully. "Sometimes limestone. Limestone is softer, but it crumbles."
Luna stared at the foot.
It was ugly. It was scarred.
And yet... it was powerful. It looked like the limb of a predator, evolved for a specific, brutal environment.
"Measure it," Luna said softly.
Kyle shook his head, regaining composure. He slid the metal gauge against Soccer's heel.
"Size nine length. But the width... he's like a triple E. And his arch is insane. Most shoes aren't gonna fit."
"Try the Predators," Luna pointed to a red and black pair. "Top shelf."
Ten minutes later.
Soccer stomped his foot. The $250 Adidas Predator looked sleek, aggressive, and expensive.
"How do they feel?" Luna asked.
Soccer frowned. He looked miserable.
"It feels... dead."
"Dead?" Kyle looked offended. "Those have Zone-Skin rubber control elements and a weighted power facet."
"I can't feel the floor," Soccer complained. He wiggled his toes, but the shoe was a coffin. "It's like walking on marshmallows. How am I supposed to know where the ground is if I can't feel the vibrations?"
"Vibrations?" Luna crossed her arms. "Soccer, turf fields don't vibrate. They just sit there."
"Everything vibrates," Soccer corrected. "If a defender runs up behind me, the ground shakes a little. If I wear these pillows, I'm blind."
He kicked the shoe off. It hit the wall with a dull thud.
"Too soft. Too heavy. Too... secure."
"Secure is good!" Kyle argued. "It prevents ankle rolls!"
"I need my ankles to roll," Soccer said, peeling off the other shoe. "If they don't roll, I can't shift my weight when the wind changes."
Luna sighed. She looked at the wall of high-tech footwear. Carbon fiber plates. Laceless designs. Sock-collars.
All designed to protect the foot.
But Soccer didn't want protection. He wanted contact.
"Do you have anything... thinner?" Luna asked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. "We have the budget bin in the back. Minimalist classics. Copas. Kings. But nobody wears those anymore unless they're forty."
"Get them."
Kyle returned with a simple black box.
No neon. No plastic fins.
He pulled out a shoe. Leather. Black. Three white stripes. A flat, simple sole with short, conical studs.
The Adidas Copa Mundial. A dinosaur of a boot.
Soccer's eyes lit up.
"Those," he whispered. "Those look like skin."
He shoved his foot in. The kangaroo leather stretched. It didn't fight his wide foot; it molded to it. The sole was thin. Flexible.
Soccer stood up.
He closed his eyes.
The buzz of the fluorescent lights. The hum of the air conditioner. The rhythmic tapping of a customer walking three aisles over.
He could feel it all through the soles.
"Better?" Luna asked.
Soccer opened his eyes. The pupils were dilated. Focused.
"Throw me a ball."
"We're in a store, sir, you can't—" Kyle started.
Luna grabbed a Size 5 ball from a display and tossed it.
It wasn't a gentle toss. It was high. Drifting toward a stack of fragile glass water bottles near the register.
"Oops," Luna said, deadpan.
Soccer moved.
He didn't run. He just... existed in a new location.
The Ghost Step worked differently on the linoleum floor. The hard plastic studs clicked against the tile. Click-slide.
He slid three feet, body tilting like a motorcycle racer rounding a curve. His right foot shot up.
The black leather touched the ball.
Not a kick. A caress.
He absorbed the ball's momentum mid-air, bringing it down to the floor without a sound. It didn't bounce. It just glued to his instep.
He stood there, one leg balanced, the ball resting on his foot like a trained bird. He was inches away from the glass tower. Nothing had broken.
Kyle's mouth hung open. "The hell?"
Soccer wiggled his toes inside the leather. He felt the ball. He felt the floor. He felt the tiny imperfection in the tile under his heel.
"These work," Soccer grinned. "I can hunt in these."
Luna pulled out the credit card. Her heart was hammering in her chest.
She had seen players try on new boots before. They usually clomped around, looked in the mirror, asked about the color.
Soccer didn't care what they looked like. He only cared about the connection.
He's not buying equipment, she realized. He's buying a new limb.
"We'll take them," Luna said.
The sun was setting by the time they got back to Northwood High.
Coach Cross was waiting.
He sat on a folding chair in the middle of the empty field. A bag of balls sat next to him. He looked like a gatekeeper.
Soccer hopped out of Luna's car before it even fully stopped. He was wearing the black cleats. He clattered onto the pavement, then hit the turf. The sound changed immediately. Silent. Deadly.
"Got your weapon?" Cross called out. He didn't look up from his clipboard.
"Yeah!" Soccer ran over, doing a high-kneed jog that looked ridiculous but covered ground alarmingly fast. "They feel great, Coach! Like I'm wearing nothing, but sharper!"
Cross looked at the black leather boots. "Classics. Good choice. Now, tie them tighter."
"Why?"
"Because," Cross stood up. He picked up a ball.
"Luna told me about the mountain," Cross said, walking toward the penalty box. "Cliff edges. Uneven ground. Storms."
"Yeah?"
"That training gave you balance. It gave you instincts." Cross dropped the ball on the penalty spot. "But it gave you a bad habit."
Soccer tilted his head. "What bad habit?"
"You play alone."
Cross kicked the ball. He didn't kick it at the goal. He kicked it straight at Soccer's face.
Wham.
Soccer dodged. Easily. Just a tilt of the neck.
"Exactly," Cross growled. "You dodge. You avoid obstacles. You move around things."
Cross kicked another ball. Rapid fire.
"On a field, Soccer, you can't always go around. Sometimes, you have to go through."
He pointed to the far end of the field.
Walking out of the shadows under the bleachers was a figure.
It wasn't a student.
It was a man. Huge. Maybe twenty-five years old. Built like a brick privy, wearing a mesh scrimmage vest that looked ready to burst over his chest muscles.
"This is Tank," Cross introduced. "He's a linebacker for the college team nearby. He doesn't know how to play football."
Soccer blinked. "Hello, Tank!"
Tank grunted. He slapped a fist into his palm.
"But," Cross continued, his voice dropping an octave. "I told him that if he stops you from scoring, I'll buy him a steak dinner. And Tank is very hungry."
"So... 1v1?" Soccer asked, excited.
"No." Cross blew his whistle. "No ball yet. You have to get from the midfield line to the goal box. Tank's job is to stop you. Any means necessary."
Soccer looked at the giant man.
Then he looked at the distance. Fifty yards.
"Okay," Soccer smiled. "I'll just Ghost Step around him."
"Try it."
Soccer launched.
He accelerated instantly, a black blur against the green. He aimed for Tank's left side. He waited for Tank to blink.
Now.
Soccer feinted right, then snapped left. The Ghost Step. It fooled eyes. It fooled balance.
He slipped past Tank.
WHAM.
The world spun.
Soccer hit the turf hard. He rolled, gasping. His ribs screamed.
He looked up. Tank hadn't moved his feet. He had just... extended an arm. A massive, tree-trunk arm. It was like running into a clothesline made of iron.
"I didn't... blink?" Soccer wheezed, sitting up.
"Eyes can be fooled," Cross lectured, walking over. "But mass? Gravity? You can't fake mass, kid. That man takes up space. You can't slip through space that doesn't exist."
Soccer touched his ribs. It hurt. It hurt almost as bad as the time he fell off the Gray Ridge.
"He's big," Soccer admitted.
"He's a defender," Cross corrected. "Professional defenders aren't going to let you dance. They're going to body check you into the advertising boards. Your 'Assassin' style works when they don't know you exist. But once you take a shot? They know. And they will come for you."
Cross tossed a ball to Soccer.
"Again. If you can't score on him, you don't start the Regional Qualifier next week."
Soccer stood up. He wiped the rubber pellets off his cheek.
He looked at Tank. The guy was smiling now. A predator smile.
Soccer felt something new.
On the mountain, the rocks didn't hate you. The storm didn't want to hurt you. Nature was just indifferent.
This was different.
This was malice.
And strangely...
Soccer grinned. A wild, reckless grin that made Luna take a step back.
His blood was boiling.
"He wants to hit me," Soccer realized aloud. "He actually wants to hit me."
He pressed the sole of his new black cleats into the turf. He felt the grip. The traction.
"Okay," Soccer whispered. "Let's play."