[v2] Chapter 31: Disaster in Practice

Monday, April 29

Location: School Halls

Operation: N/A

20:06

School had ended, and I was transported home via a violently shaky portal that felt like being shoved through a kaleidoscope of static. The stress clung to me like smoke. I couldn’t shake it. Maddie had been at the bottom of the MP list. She’d run. And somehow... none of that mattered.

White hadn’t believed me.

Principal Renner probably didn’t either.

I could just imagine her—sitting smugly in some secret upstairs office, eyes glinting with glee as she watched it all unfold, maybe even fantasizing about another glorious moment of dumping toilet water on my face.

I needed help. And it was looking like my only options were Malachi or Greg. Because right now? I was losing everything.

I walked the rest of the way home, constantly glancing over my shoulder. No one followed—thank God—but that didn’t rule out Malachi being in my room already.

After opening the door, I was met by Mom and gave her a solemn hug. Her warmth steadied me for a second, like a single buoy in an ocean. In the living room, Greg was lounging on the couch, eyes locked on his phone.

It wasn’t the front door that caught his attention—but the jingling of my backpack keys. He glanced up, offered a casual fist bump, and went right back to scrolling. I returned the gesture and slumped beside him, letting my head fall against the back of the couch.

“Relief?” he asked.

“Frustration.”

“They didn’t believe you?” Greg said, raising an eyebrow.

“Nah… somehow.” I sighed, and immediately regretted it—my breath still felt like tension wrapped in failure. “Apparently, there wasn’t enough evidence. But she ran, Greg.”

“I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Simple,” Greg said, sitting up. “You get more evidence. This lead makes the most sense—you just haven’t packaged it right.”

“Well, that’s subjective,” I muttered. “There are other possibilities too. I just don’t know how to start exploring them.”

“Start with Maddie. Just observe her. For now, forget solving the whole thing—get suspicion off of you first.”

I gave him a long, skeptical stare. He bared his teeth in an exaggerated grin, then immediately looked away. “Sure... I hope so.”

“Me too,” Greg replied. “I don’t want my brother ending up in a cell. We’re separated enough already.”

“...Okay, that was uncalled for.”

He shrugged. “Nonetheless. You tryna play or—?”

Saturday

Location: YMPA Football Field

Time: Unknown

The clock rang. I dressed. I got portaled to practice—now with an unhealthy level of caution aimed at Andre.

By the time I arrived, the field was already buzzing with activity. Malachi stood chatting with a group of boys, all of them shirtless, jacked, and nearly indistinguishable. They looked like human gym bags stuffed with bricks and basketballs. It was... intimidating.

Malachi flashed me a grin but returned to his conversation without pause.

Clearly, I wasn’t part of the A-list today.

I needed to find Tisiah—if he was here and not hiding again. I scanned the field quickly, eyes skipping over muscle mountains and meatheads until I spotted him on a bench, quietly devouring a sandwich.

Of course.

“Tisiah!” I called.

He jolted, eyes going wide—genuinely startled—before recognizing me. His shoulders relaxed as he frowned.

“You could’ve just texted,” he muttered. “I’m trying to stay unseen.”

“Sorry... but they weren’t convinced.”

Tisiah froze, mid-bite.

“White and a couple others. They said it wasn’t enough.”

“She ran, though!” he blurted, sandwich momentarily forgotten.

“Exactly. But apparently we scared her by charging in, wands out, so—‘not enough evidence.’”

Tisiah narrowed his eyes. “Wow. Yeah, I should’ve known. Spies probably treat evidence like gold bars. Nothing gets a pass without bulletproof proof.”

“She ran,” I repeated, frustration slipping into my tone. “That’s supposed to mean something.”

“Did they ever say what kind of evidence they do need?” he asked.

“No,” I admitted. “They just assumed she ran because we were aggressive.”

“Then maybe it’s not Maddie,” he said, pausing. “Maybe the answer’s been obvious.”

I turned to him slowly. “Who?”

“Jamal.”

I blinked. “So, you think there are three double agents?”

“Where’d that come from?” he asked, raising a brow.

“If Maddie and Elf ran—and they’re supposedly YMPA spies—why would they defend Jamal unless they were also against YMPA?”

“Oh…” He looked thoughtful for a second. “That... actually makes sense.”

Before we could go deeper, a guttural bellow came from the depths of the earth—or possibly Coach Wallaby’s stomach.

“Everyone in a line!”

Instantly, the entire team scrambled into formation. Tisiah and I ended up side by side.

Coach Wallaby marched along the line, eyeing us like he was inspecting livestock.

“Figures,” he muttered. “Didn’t realize so many of you loved being half-naked in the sun.”

He stopped, smacked one player’s abs, and rubbed them like a fresh-cut steak.

No one spoke. Just horror.

“No one thought to maybe wear their jersey? Hmm?”

A silent, psychic wave passed through the shirtless players, and they all began shuffling toward the locker rooms.

“No, no, no,” Coach Wallaby barked. “I respect the daring attitude. Everyone keep your shirts off!”

...What?

“Shirts—uh—wait—” a few guys mumbled hesitantly.

“Shirts off!” Wallaby repeated with glee. “We’re gonna play like real men. Builds camaraderie. Trust. Mutual discomfort, but hey—team spirit!”

“Uh, Coach! Isn’t this a little unfair for those who are at least wearing a shirt?!” someone called out. I saw him—young, clearly panicked, and about three men to my right.

So naturally, Coach Wallaby approached... me.

“Hmm… what’s your name, son?”

“I didn’t—”

“I said—what’s your name, son?”

His tone was identical to the first time. That unnerving calm that made it clear he didn’t care if I’d spoken or not. The outcome was already written.

“Connor,” I said stiffly.

“Connor—you got courage.”

“Uh... thanks?”

“Sometimes that courage is misplaced.”

I gulped.

“Take your shirt off. And don’t make me say it again. You’re a man. Embrace it.”

And just like that, everyone was shirtless. Even the offensive linemen. Especially the offensive linemen.

Some things can’t be unseen.

Coach Wallaby clapped his hands. “Alright! Here’s the schedule. Warm-up exercises, then an activity. You’ll see what it is when we get there. Now—everyone to the middle!”

We all shuffled to the center of the field. Wallaby followed, walking delicately—unnervingly so.

“Push-ups!” he shouted.

Now, push-ups weren’t the issue. The timing was. I needed to time my Perk carefully to avoid suspicion.

I glanced to my right—Tisiah. Then to his right—Malachi.

To my left—Andre.

He was staring. Not mockingly. Not threateningly.

Admiringly?

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. It was as if he was studying me—deeply. Like there was some kind of neural processor behind his eyes gathering data through observation. His smirk wasn’t insulting... it was curious.

We hit the fiftieth push-up. Some guys were already collapsing.

Then Andre finally spoke.

“Connor, right?”