Control

"Time," the teacher announced. "Please pass your tests forward."

The familiar routine began. Tests were gathered, pencils and belongings were shuffled in and out of bags, and everyone stood respectfully before meandering their way out into the hallway. Satoshi sighed a breath of relief as he joined the flow, but the tension remained, following him like a shadow.

He stepped out into the hall and felt the familiar quiet hum of students preparing for the final period. That was until he found Makoto standing at his shoe locker, looking pensively within it.

"Ah, Satoshi-san. What's up?" Makoto said, looking over at him briefly.

"Makoto-san," Satoshi said, again feeling the tension ease within him, now that he had someone else to focus on. "You look stuck."

Makoto turned to him and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He gestured toward his locker. "Yeah... my little brother borrowed my gym shoes for his PE class yesterday and forgot to return them. I grabbed what I thought was my spare pair this morning, but..." He held up a muddy, worn sneaker with a sole that was starting to separate. "These got soaked in the rain two days ago. I put them out to dry and completely forgot they were still damp and dirty."

"Can't you just use your street shoes?"

"For a skirmish?" Makoto asked with a confused glance. "I don't think so."

"Here...you can use mine," Satoshi suggested, "and I'll use my street shoes."

Makoto turned to him and closed the locker door. "Really? You would do that?"

"I mean..." Satoshi shrugged lightly. "I pretty much wear my street shoes already and it's obvious the athletic shoes don't improve my skill much anyway."

"But it's a practice game. Coach will get mad at you. He said that we need to be at top performance before the actual match this Saturday."

"I'll be fine," Satoshi waved the concerns away. "Trust me."

"I'm way taller than you though," Makoto said, looking down at their obvious height difference. "Are you sure yours will fit me?"

"Okay, don't accept my generous gift," Satoshi joked a bit while he arranged his stuff into his locker and pulled out his sports bag. "I provided a solution, I'm sorry if the solution doesn't meet your standards."

"I..." Makoto grimaced a bit. "I do appreciate it Satoshi."

Satoshi pulled the shoes out and handed them to Makoto. "Here, try them, and if they're good, we won't have to tell everyone that you're terrible at keeping track of your things." Satoshi smiled and Makoto took the shoes in a slightly strained gesture.

"Thank you Satoshi, I...I mean it."

"Don't worry about it."

The two of them walked their way to the changing rooms and continued to talk. Satoshi objectively realized how much more relaxed he was now that he was talking to a friend. He hadn't felt the tension ever since he began talking to Makoto, and even as they changed into their gym clothes, there was none of the harsh sensation that had followed him in the classroom. Instead, he was relaxed and not afraid. He wasn't afraid of himself, or of anyone else. Makoto was all he needed to worry about right now and that was fine enough for him.

They got out onto the field and a small stream of students came as well. Satoshi talked with his teammates, finally acknowledging them and talking amongst them in relaxed finality. He realized, passively, that the reason the memory had come up was because of the silence of the test. That silence lent him a time to think, and he already had known the answers for the rest of the questions so his mind was allowed to wander. He needed to figure out a good strategy in order to eliminate that. He looked back to his teammates, stretching and preparing themselves while their coach talked with a few of the team leaders about what he wanted to work on today. It felt natural, being here, amongst the grass

Satoshi came up into the line as everyone took their positions. He could recognize a sensation of judgement pass over him as he looked at his teammates and saw them looking down at his shoes. Eventually, even the coach noticed.

"And why are you wearing your street shoes?" Coach Takeda said with vile disgust.

Everyone looked at Satoshi. He wondered if he should feel shame about this, annoyance, or even anger, but he realized he just felt pride. He looked at Makoto who gave off an impression of gratitude.

"I apologize Sensi, I left my athletic shoes at home today." He smiled softly at Makoto. "It won't happen again."

Takeda sighed but everyone on the team seemed a little enthralled by Satoshi's honesty. He was bold enough to say such a thing, and bold enough to apologize for it. Everyone on the team would have expected this from someone like Makoto, but to see it from Satoshi was a reminder of how humble Satoshi really was.

Satoshi felt comfortable in the lie.

"Fine, it will do for now," Takeda said with a bit of a harsh huff, but still understanding that Satoshi was the best winger on the team, even in street shoes. "But we can't have mistakes like this happen when it comes to the tournament. The smallest error can grow exponentially when dealing with the chaos of an actual match."

"As you have said Sensei," one of the other team members spoke up. "There is no plan on the battlefield."

"Exactly Nakamura-san, thank you," Takeda nodded in his direction. "With that said, let's begin..." He turned swiftly to the side and began running through the instructions they were to follow.

He ran through the exercises, his mind focused on his teammates and the issues they faced in trying to accomplish the shared goal of winning. He contemplated his own place while doing useless exercises that he needed to do in order to pretend his normalcy. He considered the exhausted nature of his teammates as they only had just begun. He considered his own immovable form.

He started off the skirmish slow. He wasn't trying anything too audacious or fancy. He didn't need to, he didn't really want to. He kept his space and guarded it from the runs and attacks from the opposing team, which Makoto was a part of, and he stole the ball away a few times, just to keep the rest of his team on their toes. He considered the look on the face of his fellow teammates, the panting exhaustion, the determined stares. He realized he felt none of those things, and he stared onward towards the goal with dispassionate mechanical direction. He closed his eyes for another moment and imagined himself winning the game singlehandedly. He also opened them again to see the ball sailing by him.

"Iragawa!" Takeda yelled uselessly from the side. "I know you're better than this."

Satoshi smiled back at him, humored at the truth of that statement, before looking at the rest of the team. They were all humored at it too, Makoto especially.

The game carried on for a little longer, Satoshi accomplishing his goal with bored indifference, but that all changed when he saw a group of students moving onto the small concrete stands beyond. The team was taking a break and Satoshi examined the small mass of students. He could recognize directly that it was the free-study period which Hikari and Akira were in. He couldn't see Akira, but he could definitely see Hikari, the crowd surrounding her was pretty easy to distinguish.

Makoto came up to Satoshi and looked over as well.

"Hikari-san seems to... watch our practices often lately," Makoto observed quietly, taking a small sip from his water bottle.

"She can go wherever she wants," Satoshi sighed, wistfully. "Besides, I don't think she's particularly interested in me specifically. I think she just likes being out here so that she can be a cheerleader."

"You two talk a lot, don't you?," Makoto said carefully, glancing at him sideways.

Satoshi crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. "We're in the student council together," Satoshi gave a light smile. "We have to talk to each other."

"Mm." Makoto nodded thoughtfully. "Still... that must be... nice."

"I don't think she'd be right for me," Satoshi said after a moment's pause. "She's too popular, if that makes sense."

"Ah," Makoto nodded slowly. "Someone more... quiet might suit you better?" Satoshi looked at him questioningly.

"What do you mean?"

"Well..." Makoto hesitated, then spoke more carefully. "Yuka-san seems comfortable around you. You two talk easily together."

"What are you trying to say, Makoto?" Makoto looked down at his water bottle.

"Nothing really. Just... an observation."

"Maybe keep your observations to yourself," Satoshi said, but without real heat as he turned back to the field. "She's just a friend, just like Hikari-san."

"Of course," Makoto said quietly, following him back.

Satoshi, now filled with an interesting energetic vigor, performed spectacularly. Several other team members commented on the fact that it was Hikari's presence and her posse that caused him to act this way, and Satoshi supposed it was, but it wasn't that he was working any harder, it was he simply had purpose now. He could kick the ball and cause it to sail directly into the net, he could magically catch up with anyone he was pursuing, he was able to perform feats that anyone who should be as exhausted as he should have been wouldn't have dreamed of, but he wasn't exhausted and he wasn't dreaming. He simply had purpose and reason now. He wanted to show Makoto up, but he also wanted to prove to everyone watching that he was the best. More importantly though, he wanted to prove to himself that he still had control over himself.

Only once did he slip up. He was approaching the goal, he had several teammates on either side, and Makoto providing defense in front of him. He knew he should have passed, he knew he shouldn't have taken the shot, but some sort of instinctual desire overrode his logical judgment and he made the shot. It should have gone out of the net, it should have veered off and contacted the corner of the goal and bounced away, but he forced it not to.

He knew he messed up when he watched the strange, jerky motion of the ball. It slid, as if someone had stopped its animation, moved it over several centimeters, and then started it up again. For a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, the sphere hung suspended in an impossible arc before snapping back into normal trajectory. Satoshi's breath caught in his throat as he scanned the field with desperate eyes, searching for any sign that anyone had witnessed the unnatural spectacle.

Someone could have seen.

Luckily, everyone else was too tired or too focused on other things to notice it, but Satoshi noticed, and with all the glory he had felt during this match, from the onlooking gasps of Hikari's posse, he felt it slip away with the awareness of his failure. The congratulation of his teammates became distant noise, their celebration hollow and meaningless.

He looked at his teammates and then at Makoto. They were all proud of him, but all of that pride meant nothing when he couldn't feel proud of himself. Their genuine smiles and enthusiastic cheer felt like mockery now. How could he accept their admiration when it was built on a lie?

Satoshi let out another tense breath he hadn't been aware he had been holding and quickly made his way out of the cooling down crowd. They were all talking about how well they did, or what specifically they wanted to improve, but he just wanted to get away. He was looking for some air, and some relief from the ache inside his soul, that hollowness that made him demand questions of himself. Why this? He heard something ask from inside himself. Dying people across the world, and you choose a soccer ball.

"Everything alright?" Makoto asked, coming up to him.

"Yes..." Satoshi sighed. "Just..." He thought about Makoto's passive face, and then silenced the bubbling hope. "I'm just tired from the skirmish"

"Ah..." Makoto nodded. "You did great out there," Makoto encouraged lightly.

"You as well, considering you were in shoes two sizes too small for you." Satoshi confirmed, getting his feet back under himself.

"I made do," Makoto shrugged. "Thank you for that, by the way, and thank you for lying for me."

"Hey, what good's a friend that betrays you, correct?" Satoshi nodded as the sensation of curiosity seeped slowly away into the cover of social interaction. He looked back to Hikari and recognized that she was part of this comforting climate of social safety. He looked back to Makoto and nodded. "Can you cover for me? I need to talk to Hikari."

"She stayed for the entire game," Makoto observed, with the faintest hint of a smile.

"It's about the hatsumode planning," Satoshi said quickly. "Student council business."

"Ah, of course." Makoto's eyes held a subtle gleam of amusement. "Very important shrine visit planning."

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" Makoto asked innocently, though his smile widened just slightly. "I'm sure the discussion will be... thorough."

"You're impossible," Satoshi muttered, but there was no real annoyance in it.

"And you're too serious, Satoshi."

He could feel the eyes staring upon him as he made his way through the stairs and up onto the concrete stands. Everyone else was in their school uniform, and he was clearly out of place amongst this crowd of popular and well maintained faces. He knew he deserved to be a part of this crowd, especially considering his prowess on the field, but he also knew that denying himself that pleasure put him even further above them. They all stared at him with envy as he walked through the small fence and towards the group.

Out by the edge of the stands, the metal seats still glistened in spots from the afternoon drizzle. The upper rows were dotted with clusters of second-year girls, their bags open in their laps, phones hidden behind loose sleeves as they whispered over half-finished drinks.

When Satoshi's shoes clinked against the steps, a few heads turned — the whispers grew tighter, more polite. He felt the stares rake over his plain street shoes, and his strangely relaxed posture. He didn't look like them — not quite, merely recognizing that he was being judged. Their glances stuck like burrs on his skin.

He spotted Hikari near the middle row — a bright splash of color in a loose cardigan and the school ribbon tugged just slightly off-center. She rose before he could say a word, smoothing her skirt with a small flick of her wrist.

"Iragawa-kun," she called, warm and teasing. "You were amazing today."

"Thanks," he murmured, feeling heat creep up his neck.

"And that last kick—incredible." Her friends giggled behind their hands.

He straightened, grasping for normalcy. "The hatsumode planning. Do you have something for tomorrow's meeting?"

She tilted her head. "Don't worry—I have ideas to help draw out the first-years."

"I'm counting on you."

"You can," she said softly, eyes bright. "Our star player."

A few of the classmates giggled at the thought and Satoshi felt a rage of embarrassment come up. With an eerie recognition, a thought came to his mind, the same thought that had come to him earlier. She was milliseconds away from death at any moment. He looked at one of the pencils one of the students had left on the seat. He watched it and he knew that within a moment's notice it could fling up and jab itself through her neck. He shook his head clear of those thoughts and came back down to her level.

He shut the door on the thought.

His voice stayed even.

"I'll play well at the tournament — if you hold up your end."

Hikari's grin softened just a fraction. "I always do."

Satoshi, a little shaken from the thought that had crossed through his mind, turned and went briskly back to the field, connecting back up with the rest of his teammates and silently following them back into the changing rooms. It wasn't long until he could walk home, he thought, as he tried to figure out where these thoughts kept coming from. It wasn't long until he could get away from this world of fakery and speak with someone who knew the truth, who was able to accept what he was thinking as something natural and normal. Then again, none of this was normal, he had to remind himself, and it was a fools errand to pretend it was.

So, he went on autopilot, achieving everything with perfectly normal aplomb as he moved through the rest of the day and eventually got home. He didn't go with Kenji as he went further into downtown to see a movie, or with Makoto who invited him over for dinner. He silently accepted what he had thought and what he had wanted. So, in a form of personal condemnation, he simply went back to his own, private, single room apartment, and tried to consider what had just happened.

He tried to distract himself, sitting at his desk, pretending to read through textbooks which were unnecessary to him. The facade was improper. It was an act for no one but himself. The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional sound of neighbors moving about their evening routines. He looked out at the horizon, the orange of a setting sun already apparent to him and he thought back to her. He knew he should have probably called her from the moment he arrived, but he had tried to pretend he could resolve this on his own.

He put down his pen and rubbed his temples. This wasn't just about today. Something had been building for weeks, ever since the earthquake perhaps, a restlessness, an edge to his thoughts that hadn't been there before. The careful control he'd maintained for years felt like it was fraying at the edges, and he needed to talk about it, even if it was with someone he hated. He was thinking too many things for his own good, the soccer ball hanging in midair like a glitch in reality, the pencil that could have been a weapon. The easy lie about his shoes. The pride he'd felt at deceiving his coach, his teammates, his friends.

And the thought about Hikari... where had that come from? The casual visualization of violence, the clinical assessment of how easily her life could end. With the teacher and the class it was simply a hovering of a thought, and emotion, but with Hikari it was something more. It wasn't anger or malice—it was something colder, more detached. The simple awareness of his capability.

He looked at his phone, sitting silent on the desk. His mother had warned him about silence, about letting his mind wander too freely without human connection to anchor him. But how could he explain this to Kenji or Akira or Makoto? How could he tell them that their friendship was the only thing keeping him tethered to his humanity?

The tension from the day had never really left. It had just been masked by social interaction, by the routine of school and practice and normal teenage concerns. But now, alone in his apartment with nothing but his thoughts for company, it pressed against him like a physical weight.

He picked up his phone and scrolled to the unnamed number. His thumb hovered over it for a long moment before he finally pressed call.

It rang twice before she answered.

"Something happen?"

"No...well...maybe..." He got up from his desk and walked to the window, looking out at the lights of the city. "I...I still feel odd today. Something's wrong and it's causing me to think..." He didn't want to relay his murderous thoughts. "It's causing me to be anxious."

"Okay...and...?"

"I cheated in the skirmish today," Satoshi said, turning away from the window. "And I'm having thoughts I shouldn't have about the people around me."

"What kind of thoughts?"

He closed his eyes, feeling the words stick in his throat. "Violent ones. Not because I'm angry, just... because I can. Because I know how easy it would be."

There was a pause on the other end. When she spoke again, her voice was careful, measured.

"That's more concerning than the cheating. Tell me exactly what happened."

So he did. The soccer ball incident, the visualization about Hikari, the casual assessment of his ability to harm those around him. As he spoke, he found himself pacing the small apartment, the words coming easier once they started.

"I think what you're feeling is pretty typical," she said finally, her voice even. "At least typical for where you are and who you are. When I first arrived on this planet and realized my power, I went through a similar phase. The awareness of your capability can be... overwhelming."

"I know...but...why do I still think of these things?"

"Could be several reasons. Part of it might be that you're finally mature enough to fully comprehend what you're capable of. But there's also..." She paused. "Men, especially young men, have certain destructive impulses, like a child squishing bugs. It's primal and natural, but it's simply a thought. The difference is that you have the ability to act upon those thoughts."

"That's terrible..."

"Yes, but you can notice it's terrible and that's what counts. So...accept that it's a part of you, accept that you want to do these things, and understand where that desire is coming from. You'll be fine, I know it."

"You sound so encouraging."

"I don't like the alternative."

Satoshi nodded, pausing as he thought about it. "Okay...I will."

"As for the feeling of discomfort. It's entirely possible that your brain is finally adapting to the enhanced perception you've developed. I know that when I'm in cities like the one you're living in, I'm always detecting flaws in structural supports or mechanical systems. Most of the infrastructure on this planet is so poorly made that to someone who can sense imperfections it can be disquieting."

Satoshi stopped pacing. "You mean, this feeling might be telling me something's actually wrong? Like the gym roof is going to collapse or something similar?"

"Possibly...I...I could run some tests back at—"

"I don't… I'm not living there anymore, okay?" Satoshi said quickly, feeling that familiar defensive edge creep into his voice.

"I know, I was just...We have the equipment—"

"I'm not coming to the Keep," Satoshi said again, more firmly. "I called you for advice, not to have you lecture me about my life choices."

"I know..." Her voice sounded defeated. "I...I know..."

Satoshi stood in silence for a moment, realizing that once again he had failed his mother's advice about maintaining focus on human connection, and he sighed. "I think it's best if we hang up now."

"Okay...I...I love you, son."

"I know," Satoshi said, hanging up the phone and setting it back on his desk.

The apartment felt quieter than before. He moved to the window and rested his forearm against the sill, his forehead nearly touching the cool glass. Below, the city sprawled in all directions—a constellation of lit windows, each one a life he would never touch, never truly know. The distant rumble of trains carried people home to families, to lovers, to the small dramas and joys that made up normal existence. Traffic lights changed in their eternal cycle, governing the movement of ordinary people with ordinary problems.

He watched a salaryman hurry past on the street below, briefcase swinging, probably late for dinner with his wife. In the apartment building across the way, he could see the blue glow of television screens, families gathered around low tables, sharing meals and conversation. A couple walked hand in hand beneath the streetlights, their laughter drifting up through the evening air like something precious and fragile.

All of it so beautifully mundane. So perfectly, achingly normal.

What would it be like, he wondered, to worry about test scores and part-time jobs and whether someone liked you back? To have your greatest concern be arriving late to practice or forgetting homework? To move through the world without constantly calculating the distance between impulse and catastrophe, without measuring every gesture against the potential for destruction?

He pressed his palm flat against the glass, imagining he could reach through it and touch that other life—the one where power was something you earned through effort, where strength had limits, where the worst thing you could do to someone was hurt their feelings. Where love wasn't something you had to ration for fear of what your intensity might do to the object of your affection.

The city lights blurred slightly, and he realized his eyes had grown damp. When was the last time he'd cried? When was the last time he'd allowed himself the luxury of simple human emotion without analyzing it for signs of dangerous loss of control?

He looked at his reflection in the dark window and saw his father's eyes staring back at him, unable to say anything from their cold, lifeless, glare.