CAR GRAVEYARD / SCRAP YARD — LATE AFTERNOON

  A sea of carcasses.

  Stacked bodies.

  Detached doors.

  Hoods crushed like soda cans.

  The smell of old oil, dust, rust.

  Desolation.

  A place that already looks dead.

  The car stops.

  Jason gets out and looks around, tense.

  The silence bothers him.

  “What the fuck are we doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  Michael steps out, closes the door calmly.

  “Here we can test you without anyone asking questions.”

  Bronx jumps down, sniffs around for two seconds, then lifts a leg and pisses on a wreck with satisfaction, like he’s signing the place.

  Jason watches him for a second.

  “Perfect.”

  “Even the dog feels relaxed…”

  Michael ignores the joke. Walks through the wreckage and stops in front of a stack of crushed cars.

  A tall, unstable pile.

  Metal sheets and already shattered glass.

  A graveyard inside a graveyard.

  Michael studies it like a technician assessing a structure.

  “Ahhh…”

  Pause.

  “Look at this. Perfect.”

  Jason scoffs.

  “What?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He takes a step closer.

  “Hey. Are you listening to me?”

  Michael finally turns.

  “Stop right there.”

  Jason freezes.

  Michael points at the pile like he’s calling a target at a firing range.

  “You see this nice little pile of junk?”

  “Yeah… so?”

  “Punch it.”

  Pause.

  “Maximum power.”

  Jason’s eyes widen.

  “Are you insane?”

  He looks around, paranoid, like a drone could pop out of a hood.

  “What if we get spotted?”

  His voice drops, raw and honest.

  “I’m honestly shitting myself.”

  “I don’t want them to find me.”

  “I don’t want to end up arrested… or worse.”

  Michael cuts him off, raising a hand like you quiet a barking dog.

  “Easy. Easy.”

  A quick scan of the area, nothing more.

  “We’re safe here… for now.”

  A half-smile.

  “This place is abandoned.”

  “No one comes through.”

  “Not even homeless people. Trust me.”

  Jason breathes harder.

  His shoulders shake—not from cold.

  Michael pins him with a look.

  “And anyway…”

  “If you don’t learn to handle it, it’s not OPOM that gets you.”

  “It’s your own power.”

  Jason lowers his gaze.

  “Okay…”

  He wipes sweat with the back of his hand. Tries to give himself an order.

  “One punch at max power, then.”

  Michael nods.

  “Yes.”

  And his voice hardens.

  “And don’t just ‘hit hard.’”

  He steps closer, serious.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  “Give it everything.”

  Jason stares at him.

  Michael doesn’t break eye contact.

  “To learn control…”

  “…we first need to know what we’re dealing with.”

  Michael backs off to a safe distance.

  Bronx is already far away, perched on a hood, still as a sentry.

  Jason stands in front of the pile.

  Alone.

  The wind stirs dust and scraps of paper.

  Jason lowers his chin.

  Closes his eyes for a second.

  And does it.

  The ritual.

  His right arm tenses and swells, like something inside is making room.

  Muscles turn granite-hard.

  Veins rise, pulsing, incandescent.

  Skin stretches.

  The air in front of his fist vibrates.

  Warps.

  The ground beneath his feet trembles slightly, like an invisible truck is approaching.

  Jason inhales.

  Holds it.

  Then—

  PUNCH.

  POOOOOOM.

  It’s not a strike.

  It’s a compressed explosion.

  The stack of cars erupts like a kids’ sandcastle kicked apart.

  Metal flies.

  Glass detonates.

  Bolts and shards whistle like bullets.

  A wall of air slams through the entire junkyard.

  CRASH!

  TIN!

  BOOM!

  PAM!

  THUD THUD!

  Car carcasses fall, bounce, scrape, smash into each other.

  A rain of devastation.

  Jason feels the recoil like a bite.

  His arm screams.

  He collapses to the ground instantly, teeth clenched hard enough to hurt himself.

  “Argh… fuck…!”

  A wave of cramps rips through him from wrist to shoulder, like dirty electricity.

  Short breath.

  Sweat.

  Tremors.

  He slowly lifts his head toward Michael.

  Michael is frozen.

  Eyes wide.

  His hair is blown out of place by the shockwave.

  His jacket still moves, like the strike left residual wind trapped in the fabric.

  A drop of sweat slides down his forehead.

  He whispers, stunned.

  “Holy… fucking… shit…”

  A short, involuntary laugh slips out.

  Not because he’s happy.

  Because it’s too much.

  Michael walks into the wreckage.

  Slow steps among twisted metal and scattered debris.

  He stops at the impact point.

  It’s a nightmare.

  He touches the metal.

  The sheet is warped…

  and in some spots it looks almost cooked.

  Michael squints.

  “It’s melted.”

  Pause. He analyzes more closely.

  “But it’s not just heat…”

  He crouches, studies the folds.

  “It’s compressed.”

  He knocks on the metal with his knuckles.

  The sound is dull.

  Dead.

  Like something crushed by an industrial press.

  “Like someone fired pure pressure.”

  Jason, still on the ground, breathes like a wounded animal.

  Eyes glassy with pain.

  His voice nearly breaks.

  “It hurts… so bad…”

  Michael looks at him—and doesn’t joke now.

  “I can imagine…”

  He turns slightly, like he’s staring at data on a screen.

  “There’s the price.”

  —

  Later, Jason is still on the ground, exhausted.

  His arm trembles even at rest.

  Every now and then a cramp bites into the muscle and he clenches his jaw to keep from groaning.

  Beside him, two piles of wreckage lie devastated.

  Michael looks down at him.

  “You threw two punches at maximum power… and you’re out.”

  Jason tries to speak, but only a ragged breath comes out.

  Michael nods, like it was obvious.

  “That was expected.”

  “Power like that wrecks your nervous system.”

  He crouches near him.

  Not gentle.

  Precise.

  “If it weren’t for your constitution…”

  Pause.

  “…you’d have collapsed from your own power.”

  He looks at him seriously, no humor.

  “And not ‘passed out.’”

  “Collapsed.”

  Jason clenches his jaw, anger and fear mixed together.

  His arm throbs.

  Michael studies his forearm, the muscle density.

  Like he’s examining a weapon.

  “Your muscles…”

  A small pause.

  “…they’re like armor.”

  He stands slowly.

  “There’s something… unnatural in there.”

  He looks at the wreckage, then at Jason.

  “I’d say we’ve seen enough for today.”

  Jason stares up at him, spent.

  “Tomorrow…”

  His voice is a thread.

  “…what do we do?”

  Michael smiles faintly.

  Cold.

  “Tomorrow we learn the hardest part.”

  Jason swallows.

  “Which…?”

  Michael looks at him like he’s watching a bomb with legs.

  “Not destroying yourself… when you hit.”

  Pistol Boy.