Ficool

Chapter 4 - The System Awakens

Che moved through the apartment in urgent motions. His school bag fell to the floor with a thud, books spilling halfway out. His uniform came off in quick, practiced movements—shirt pulled over his head, pants dropped, replaced with worn jeans and a faded shirt that had belonged to his uncle first. His broken shoes stayed on. They were still his fastest option.

He was out the door before his mother could have called after him, before she could notice he hadn't started homework, before any of the day's obligations could reassert themselves. The streets of Barrio Pérez were moving into their late-afternoon rhythm—the sun still high but losing its harshest edge, vendors beginning to pack their displays, the rhythm of the neighborhood shifting from work toward evening routines.

The cancha was already occupied when he arrived. Mateo and Nico were there with two other boys from their school—Andrés and Felipe—playing in loose formations, no real structure, just moving the ball and seeing where it went. The potholes seemed less like obstacles now, more like part of the landscape, something to navigate around instead of being hindered by.

"Che!" Mateo called, seeing him approach. "Vamo'. We need someone for this side."

Che jogged into position on the left flank, about thirty meters from goal. Mateo passed the ball to him immediately, a simple sideways roll. Che's foot met it, and the moment his boot made contact, the world shifted.

A translucent overlay materialized across his vision. Not blocking his sight, but layering over it like glass. Information flooded in—not words exactly, but understanding. He could see the field differently now. The passing lanes appeared as subtle illuminations. Nico's position three meters ahead, to the left, was highlighted in a soft golden tone. Andrés pressing from the right showed as a different shade. The goalkeeper at the far end of the field had a triangle of red around him indicating danger.

SYSTEM ACTIVE

The voice came from inside his own mind, layered and ancient and somehow entirely his own.

Welcome, Che Hernandez. I am the Football System. I have been granted to you by the Gods of Football.

Che nearly stumbled, but his body kept moving on instinct. He pushed the ball forward, five meters, then looked for Nico. The golden highlight pulsed slightly.

What is this? Che thought.

I am your guide, your measurement, your path to becoming the greatest player you can be. I can see every inch of this field. Every positioning, every angle, every possibility. Right now, you have two viable passes. One to Nico in the channel—immediate impact. One to Felipe on the right, who will have time and space.

Che blinked, trying to process what was happening. He was still moving, still in the middle of a casual game, but his mind was being flooded with tactical information.

"Pass it!" Mateo shouted.

Che played Nico through the channel. Nico controlled it perfectly and pushed it toward goal, but Felipe—playing as a defender—intercepted with his body. The ball bounced loose. Nobody was really keeping score. Nobody really cared. It was just movement, just playing.

But Che cared now. Because as he moved, the System was showing him things. When he made a bad first touch, the System showed him the angle he should have used. When his positioning was reactive instead of proactive, the System highlighted where he should have been standing before the pass arrived. It wasn't criticism. It was education in real time.

By the time they'd been playing for fifteen minutes, something had fundamentally shifted in his performance.

Nico was the first to notice. After Che had received a pass, held it for one touch, and immediately threaded it back to Andrés in perfect timing—an escape route from pressing that shouldn't have been visible but was—Nico stepped back, panting slightly.

"What the hell was that?" Nico asked.

"What?" Che said, his heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

"That pass," Nico said. "How did you even see Andrés?"

"He was open," Che said.

"He was being marked," Mateo interjected. "Che, you just—you weren't playing like that yesterday."

"Maybe I was just not trying," Che said, and there was a smile on his face because it was the same joke his friends had made days ago, when he was actually bad. Now it felt different. Now it might actually be true.

They played for another ten minutes, and Che was suddenly the center of the game in a way he'd never been. Not because he was taking chances or demanding the ball, but because the System was showing him where to be and what to do, and his feet were just following the instructions his mind had always understood but never been able to execute.

Then the shadow fell across the field.

The older boys arrived in the same formation as before—six of them, the shaved-head boy leading, the same sense of property in the way they approached. This time, though, something was different. Something in the way they looked at Che and his friends suggested they'd heard something. Maybe word had traveled through the barrio. Maybe they'd just come back for revenge. It didn't matter.

"You again," the shaved-head boy said, addressing Che directly this time. "You learn your lesson yet?"

"We want to play," Che said.

The older boys laughed—actual laughter, not cruel, just the sound of people who found something funny. The shaved-head boy shook his head like Che was a child making an absurd request.

"You want to get beaten again," one of the others said. "That's fine. We don't have anything else to do."

Che looked at his friends. Mateo was already backing up slightly. Nico had his hands in his pockets. Neither of them had seen what he'd done in the previous fifteen minutes. Neither of them had confidence that this would be anything other than a repeat of the last time.

"No," Che said. "Winner stays on. Like last time. And this time, we're better."

The shaved-head boy's expression shifted. It was subtle, but the System highlighted it for Che—a micro-expression of surprise, quickly covered by something else. Maybe amusement. Maybe respect. Maybe both.

"You're either brave or stupid," the boy said. "Let's find out which."

They set up. Che and his friends versus the six older boys, this time with a slightly more formal structure. Twenty-minute match. First team to score a certain number of goals wins. The details didn't matter. What mattered was the field, the ball, and Che's ability to understand what the System was telling him.

From the opening moment, things were different.

When one of the older boys pushed forward with the ball, the System showed Che exactly where to press. Not frantically, not desperately, but with purpose. Intercept here. Cut off the pass option there. The boy trying to move forward found space closing faster than it should have. He passed quickly, almost panicked, and immediately the angle changed.

Mateo recovered the ball about thirty meters from goal. He looked toward Che, slightly confused, slightly inspired by whatever he was seeing. Che made a gesture—a subtle tilt of his head—and Mateo understood. The System had shown Che a weak point in the older boys' defensive shape. A gap that could be exploited.

They moved the ball. Mateo to Nico. Nico to Che. Che held it for one touch, and the shaved-head boy committed to pressing him. The moment he pressed, the channel opened. Che pushed it through—not a miraculous pass, just perfectly weighted—and Andrés was gone. The older boy trying to cover was two steps behind. Andrés buried it.

One-nil.

The older boys didn't celebrate. They didn't even look particularly concerned. But something had changed in their body language. The casualness was gone. They were taking this seriously now.

The System was relentless in its guidance. It showed Che where defenders were vulnerable. It highlighted where passing lanes existed before the moment came to use them. It showed him how to position himself defensively so that when the ball was loose, he was first to it. When the shaved-head boy tried to power through the middle, Che was already there, already cutting him off, already channeling him toward a less dangerous area.

By the middle of the match, his friends were playing with a confidence they hadn't had before. Whatever Che was doing, it was contagious. The older boys were frustrated, but they were also adapting. They started to press Che specifically, sensing that he was the problem. When Che had the ball, two of them would close him down immediately.

This was where the System's true value became apparent. The more pressure, the clearer the information became. When Che was about to be sandwiched by two defenders, the System showed him exactly where his only passing option was—usually a teammate he hadn't consciously noticed. He passed through pressure with an accuracy that felt like luck but wasn't. It was just information made visible.

By the end, they'd scored three goals. The older boys had scored two, which meant they didn't win, but they came close. Close enough that it wasn't a humiliation. Close enough that when they left the field, walking off with their heads reasonably high, it felt like something had shifted in the barrio's hierarchy.

"We beat them," Felipe said, like he couldn't quite believe the words.

"Che beat them," Mateo corrected, but there was no bitterness in it. Just fact.

They moved away from the field as the older boys disappeared down a side street. Che's friends were already talking about it, replaying moments, laughing at the speed with which things had happened. By the time they reached their normal hanging spot—a small alcove behind a closed colmadón where they could sit without being hassled—the sun was beginning to set, painting the buildings orange and deep yellow.

They talked about the match without really talking about it. Someone mentioned that the shaved-head boy looked angry when he left. Someone else said that next time the older boys would probably come back with more friends, which made everyone laugh because it felt impossible that they'd lose now. Che just listened, feeling the System still present, still available, still ready to show him things.

The conversations drifted. Nico mentioned his cousin who worked at a new restaurant and might be able to get them free empanadas. Andrés talked about a girl from the next neighborhood who'd smiled at him once. The kind of meaningless, endless conversation that characterized adolescence everywhere. But underneath it, something had shifted. Che had done something today that transcended the casual neighborhood football game.

By the time darkness had fully settled and the streets of Barrio Pérez had transformed into their night rhythm, Che knew he needed to head home. His mother would be finishing her shift at the hospital soon, and the realization of his forgotten homework crashed back into his consciousness.

He left his friends still talking and made his way back through the alleys toward his building. The streets were quieter now, darker, the vendors completely packed away, the day workers heading home, the night shift people heading out. The apartment building was lit from inside, but not brightly. Just enough to navigate by.

He climbed the stairs and opened the door, already preparing an excuse about time disappearing, about not noticing how late it had gotten.

His mother was standing at the stove, still in her hospital uniform, her face tight with exhaustion. She turned when he entered, and something in her expression shifted from tired to something else entirely.

"Where is your homework?" she asked.

The tone of her voice made it clear this wasn't a question. It was an indictment.

"I forgot to—" Che started.

She didn't let him finish. She moved toward him quickly, and he understood in that moment the pressure she'd been carrying all day. Ten hours at the hospital. Patients who demanded things. A supervisor who watched her every move. Financial calculations that never added up. All of it suddenly needing to be released.

Her hand came down on his shoulder, pushing him toward the table. Her voice rose, addressing not just Che but the entire apartment, everyone in it who'd ever needed something from her that she didn't have enough of.

"You think school is optional?" she demanded. "You think you can just ignore homework and play football all day?"

Each word was punctuated. Not with overwhelming violence, but with a kind of desperation that was somehow worse. She wasn't angry at Che. She was angry at circumstances. And Che was the only thing she could actually affect.

"I'm sorry," Che said, tears streaming down his face, partly from the physical pain but mostly from the weight of her disappointment.

"Your cousins are going to be poor their whole lives if nobody gets them out," she said. "You think you're going to do it playing with a ball? You need to study. You need to understand that life doesn't care about what you want. It only cares about what you do."

She stepped back, breathing hard, the violence having passed, leaving only the exhaustion behind. Che sat at the table, crying, not sure if it was from being hit or from knowing that she was right and that he didn't care about being right because all he wanted was the feel of a ball at his feet and space opening up in front of him.

His mother moved to the kitchen, beginning to prepare dinner, the moment apparently over as far as she was concerned. His uncle emerged from the living room, looking uncomfortable. His grandmother made a soft sound from her bed that might have been sympathy or might have been a cough.

Che did his homework in silence, moving through the problems mechanically, his mind in the stadium with his name echoing.

Later that night, after dinner had been eaten in relative quiet and his cousins were asleep and his mother was checking something on her phone, Che lay in the darkness of the shared bedroom. He closed his eyes and thought about the System.

Are you there? he thought.

I am always here, Che Hernandez.

What happens now?

Now, you understand what I can do for you. Today, you were good. Tomorrow, you can be better. Every day after that, better still. I can show you how to become the greatest player you have ever imagined. I can make you better than anyone in this city. Better than anyone in this country. Better than anyone on this continent.

How? Che thought.

By following every instruction I give you. Every drill. Every adjustment. Every insight. If you listen, if you commit, if you do everything I ask, I can transform you into something extraordinary. But only if you are willing to work.

Che thought about the stadium. He thought about the roar. He thought about his mother at the hospital, exhausted, carrying everyone on her shoulders. He thought about Diego and Sofia having choices.

I'm willing, he thought.

Then we begin. Tomorrow morning, before school. Before your cousins wake. There is a protocol. A preparation. The first stage of your evolution.

Che opened his eyes, and in the darkness of the apartment, he smiled. The System was there, present, humming just beneath his consciousness like a second heartbeat. Like a promise made by forces larger than himself.

He closed his eyes again and slept, and his dreams were full of perfect passes and open goals and stadiums so large that their edges disappeared into infinity.

More Chapters