Chapter 4: The Lacrosse Tryouts
The air on the lacrosse field was a heady, chaotic mix of cut grass, old sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of new gear. It was a stark and surreal contrast to the blood-soaked terror of the past few nights. Adam, a new lacrosse stick feeling alien and slightly ridiculous in his hands, stood on the sidelines, a silent observer in a world of jocks and swagger. He was a transmigrator in a new game, and he had to pretend he knew how to play.
"You're not going to get on the team just by staring at the grass, you know," a dry, familiar voice drawled beside him.
Stiles Stilinski, a human-shaped bundle of nervous energy, was leaning against the fence, a small, knowing smirk on his face. He was wearing a shirt that was two sizes too big, and he looked entirely out of place, a kindred spirit in the world of high school outcasts.
"I'm strategizing," Adam retorted, a dry, Stiles-like retort he hadn't even intended. "It's a different kind of investigation. More... athletic."
"Right," Stiles snorted, crossing his arms. "Is this part of your 'super-secret' thing you're not talking about? Suddenly you're an athlete?"
The irony was not lost on Adam. He was a transmigrator, an outsider with a cheat code, and now he was trying to play lacrosse. He was faking it until he made it, and the stakes were higher than just a spot on the team. He had to keep an eye on Scott, to subtly protect him, and to get close to the other players, particularly Jackson Whittemore. Jackson, the handsome, popular, and deeply suspicious lacrosse captain, was the real threat here, not because he was a monster, but because he was observant. He noticed things. He saw Scott's new, effortless athleticism, and he was determined to find out how.
Adam felt the familiar, cool hum of his System. He had to mimic Scott's ability, his newfound agility and speed. It was a risk, but it was necessary.
[SYSTEM: HOST ATTEMPTING NON-LIFE-THREATENING MIMICRY. ENERGY COST: MODERATE. NOTE: HOST ENERGY IS A METAPHYSICAL RESOURCE TAPPED FROM HOST'S LIFE-FORCE. DEPLETION CAN LEAD TO CHRONIC FATIGUE.]
The new message was a cold splash of reality. He wasn't just a mimic. He was a battery, and every time he used his power, he was draining a little bit of himself. The thought was a chilling one, but he pushed it aside. He had a job to do.
"Alright, boys! Let's see what you've got!" Coach Finstock yelled, a chaotic whirlwind of a man.
The tryouts began, a mess of tangled limbs and flying lacrosse balls. Adam felt his body shift, the subtle, unconscious mimicry of Scott's werewolf agility giving him an effortless grace and speed. He was faster than he should have been, his movements precise and fluid. He dodged a body check, snatched a ball out of the air, and zipped down the field, all with an ease that felt completely foreign to him.
Stiles was watching, his jaw slack. "He's like... a gazelle. A really weird, sarcastic gazelle."
Scott, however, was in his own world, his instincts honed by his new nature. He was a natural, a blur of motion and power on the field. The two of them were a study in contrasts: Scott, the raw, untamed force of nature, and Adam, the quiet, precise mimic.
The highlight of the tryouts was a play that should have ended in a disaster. Jackson, his face a mask of furious determination, body-checked Scott with a force that should have sent him flying. But Scott just absorbed the impact, his feet barely leaving the ground. Jackson stumbled back, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. The moment was gone as quickly as it had arrived, but the tension remained.
Adam, using his mimicked agility, intercepted a pass intended for Jackson, a fluid, almost impossible maneuver. He shot the ball past Jackson and into the net, a perfect, clean shot.
"Oh, my God," Stiles whispered, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and betrayal. "Have you been working out with Captain America? Because that's not normal. You're not normal!"
Adam just grinned, a genuine, rare smile that felt good on his face. "Told you. Strategy."
The tryouts ended, and Coach Finstock read the names of the new players. Adam's name was on the list. He'd done it. He was in.
As he walked off the field, he saw Jackson standing alone, his eyes fixed on Scott. There was no anger there, just a cold, analytical scrutiny. He was a potential threat, a new complication, a walking plot point that Adam had to deal with. Jackson wasn't a monster, but he was a problem, and Adam knew he had to keep an eye on him.
He was in over his head, but he was learning. He was learning how to play the game, how to be a mimic, how to be a hero. He was learning how to survive.