Campus Clash
Jack had exactly thirty-seven seconds to make a first impression on Crestwood Academy, and he was already down to twenty-nine.
The city bus coughed to a halt at the bottom of the hill. Jack stood, backpack slung over one shoulder, and inhaled pine, exhaust, and the faint, ominous scent of cafeteria chili. Crestwood's wrought-iron gates loomed above him like something out of a storybook—except the storybook had apparently forgotten to mention the security cameras that swiveled like suspicious owls.
"Easy," he told himself. "New school, new start. No exploding backpacks. No accidental arson. Just… normal."
The backpack, a battered canvas thing his mom swore was "lucky," chose that moment to burp. A puff of glitter—actual glitter—escaped the zipper and drifted into the air like cheap magic. The bus driver stared. Jack pretended he'd meant to do that.
He jogged up the path, sneakers squeaking on wet leaves. The campus unfolded in layers: red-brick dorms, a clock tower that ticked like it was late for an appointment, and a lawn so green it looked Photoshopped. Students milled about, some lugging suitcases, others practicing parkour off the stone benches. Crestwood wasn't your average boarding school. Rumor said it trained "Champions"—people who could stop world-ending threats before breakfast. Jack figured that was just marketing.
At the top of the hill, a girl with neon-blue streaks in her black hair was tinkering with a drone the size of a toaster. Wires sparked. She didn't look up.
"Excuse me," Jack said. "Where do I check in?"
The girl—name tag: Mei—glanced at him, then at the backpack. "You're the new kid. Jack, right?"
"How'd you—"
"Your backpack just glitter-bombed the welcome committee."
Jack looked back. A small crowd had gathered around the bus stop, picking glitter out of their hair like it was dandruff.
Mei grinned. "Follow me. And try not to explode anything else."
They cut across the quad. Jack tried small talk. Mei answered in binary.
At the registration table, a woman in a tweed suit handed him a clipboard. "Name?"
" . Jack."
She flipped pages. "Ah. You're in Dorm C, Room 312. Orientation starts in—" She checked her watch. "Fifteen minutes. Don't be late."
Jack signed. The pen squeaked. The clipboard squeaked louder.
"Also," the woman added, "you've been pre-enrolled in the Champion Trials."
Jack blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Standard for transfers. You'll do fine."
Mei tugged his sleeve. "Come on. You'll need a map."
They ducked into the library. It smelled like old paper and secrets. Mei pulled a book from a shelf labeled "Do Not Reshelve." It opened into a holographic map of the campus.
"Orientation's in the gym," Mei said. "But first, survival tip: the cafeteria chili is weaponized. Avoid it."
Jack nodded solemnly. "Got it. No chili. No glitter. No—"
The backpack burped again. This time, a rubber chicken popped out and honked.
Mei stared. "That thing alive?"
"It's… complicated."
They left the library. Jack's phone buzzed. A text from his mom: *Don't forget to make friends. And maybe not set anything on fire.*
He pocketed the phone. "Too late for the second part."
The gym was already packed. Banners read "Welcome, Class of 2025!" and "Try Not to Die." Jack wasn't sure which was more ominous.
On stage, a man in a lab coat paced. His hair stuck up like he'd lost a fight with a socket. Professor Sparks, Jack guessed.
"Listen up!" Sparks boomed. "You're here because you're special. Or your parents paid a lot. Either way, you're stuck with us."
Laughter rippled. Jack spotted a giant of a kid in the front row—Omar, maybe—laughing so hard he snorted. Next to him, a girl with purple glasses scribbled notes. Lila, her name tag said.
Sparks continued. "Today, we start the Trials. First test: Dodgeball. But not just any dodgeball. These balls are drones. They track heat. They explode on impact. And they're programmed to humiliate."
The gym doors slammed shut. Lights dimmed. A net lowered from the ceiling, spilling dozens of red balls that hummed like angry bees.
Jack's stomach dropped. "I hate gym."
Mei nudged him. "Watch this."
She tapped her wrist. The toaster-drone from earlier zipped out of her pocket, unfolded into a shield, and hovered in front of them.
"Borrowed it from the robotics lab," she whispered. "Don't tell."
The whistle blew. Chaos.
Jack dove. A ball whizzed past his ear, detonating against the wall in a puff of smoke and confetti. Another ricocheted off Omar's back—he didn't flinch—and boomeranged toward Jack.
Instinct took over. Jack slowed time. Not much—just three seconds. Enough to see the ball's path, twist, and punt it back. It nailed a kid in the shin. The kid yelped. The ball honked.
Mei's eyes widened. "Did you just…?"
"Long story," Jack said. Time snapped back.
Omar charged, scooping balls like they were marshmallows. Lila dodged with gymnast grace, tossing balls back with pinpoint accuracy.
Jack's backpack chose that moment to rebel. The zipper ripped open. Out flew: a whoopee cushion, a rubber duck, and—improbably—a grappling hook.
The grappling hook latched onto the ceiling. Jack yelped as it yanked him upward. He dangled above the chaos, backpack flapping like a broken kite.
Below, Sparks watched with mild interest. " ! Creative use of equipment!"
Jack tried to climb down. The hook retracted. He dropped—straight into a pile of dodgeballs. They exploded in a symphony of honks and glitter.
The gym fell silent. Then someone clapped. Then everyone.
Sparks grinned. "Welcome to Crestwood, kid. You pass."
Later, in the locker room, Jack wrung glitter from his shirt. Mei handed him a towel.
"So," she said, "time-slowing. That's new."
Jack shrugged. "Happened last summer. I was trying to catch a bus. Tripped. Everything slowed. Then I caught it."
Mei's eyes sparkled. "We need to test that. And your backpack. It's like a clown car with a grudge."
Jack laughed. "It's been in my family forever. Mom says it's 'lucky.' I say it's cursed."
Omar lumbered over, still holding a dodgeball like a trophy. "Hey. I'm Omar. You're the guy who surfed the ceiling."
"Jack."
Omar grinned. "You're alright."
Lila joined them, adjusting her glasses. "I hacked the drone balls. They're programmed to target anyone who says 'um' more than three times."
Jack winced. "I said 'um' five times during roll call."
"Explains the ambush."
They walked to the dorms. The sun dipped low, painting the campus gold. Jack felt something shift—like the air itself was waiting for him to catch up.
Room 312 was chaos: bunk beds, mismatched socks, and a mini-fridge that hummed like it was plotting. Omar claimed the top bunk by stacking textbooks into a ladder. Jack took the bottom. Mei and Lila had the room next door.
Night fell. Jack lay awake, backpack on the floor. It ticked softly, like a heartbeat.
Outside, the clock tower chimed midnight. Somewhere, a drone buzzed. Jack smiled.
First day down. Only 119 to go.
And somewhere in the dark, the backpack whispered: *Wait till they see what's next.*
Jack groaned. "Please don't explode."
The backpack burped glitter.
He sighed. "Fine. But if you glitter-bomb the headmaster, I'm blaming you."
The backpack honked. Jack took it as agreement.
Tomorrow, the Trials would begin for real. But
tonight, he had a team. A dorm. And a backpack that might just save the world—or at least make it laugh.
Either way, Jack was ready.
Mostly.