Chapter 4

The overwhelming murmur of up to a couple hundred teenage voices filled the large cafeteria like a thick fog. Over two dozen rectangular tables were all densely occupied by half-eaten lunches and talkative cliques. Near the west entrance sat the misfits, stocky boys with small glasses, greasy hair, and beards, petite girls with ratty hair and dark lip gloss. Not far from them were the goths, similar in physique to the misfits but clothed mostly in black with chains and chokers. In the row ahead of them were the honors students, a group with no reliable physical distinction that nevertheless gathered to converse on slightly more intellectual topics than the others. At the far end, close to the adjacent entrance and exit to the four main lunch counters, were the athletes, clothed in team jackets and discussing girlfriend problems or what the best play was to use in the next football game. Between the athletic tables and the honors lay the high school hierarchy's extensive middle class, comprised of students who didn't really fit into any other group but managed to fracture into dozens of small groups based on obscure common interests or companionship. Between each distinct group was a transitive group whose constituents' blended characterizations eased the flow from one clique to another.

A row of square pillars split the cafeteria in half, and at the far end where students flowed in and out of the lunch counters, the Metropolis High alma mater and a banner saying "Go Lions!" loomed over the only two doors in the wall that separated the counters and kitchen from the cafeteria itself. Through the windows, a fresh snow could be seen falling gracefully to the already blanketed campus grounds.

Near the border between the honors territory and the middle class sat Ben Kent. He was contentedly finishing his fried chicken sandwich, mashed potatoes, roll, and apple. Yet he felt different. He had woken up that morning pleased to find that his mysterious strength and speed were still there, but the happiness of last night had dissipated. He couldn't deny that his abilities would certainly be an advantage, but the "why" and the "how" of the situation still eluded him, and that had never truly ceased to vex him. He looked around, silently musing that most of his peers were probably concerned about the exams they had just taken. That day was the first of two days in which four midterm exams were given, lunch was served at twenty minutes after noon, then school was dismissed at one o'clock instead of the usual four o'clock. Which exams one took depended on which subject one had when. The first midterm exam day, students would take exams in their first, second, third, and fourth period classes, whatever they were for each individual. The second day would host exams for periods five through eight.

But midterms were the least of Ben's worries. In fact, he was grateful for his own preparedness and confidence, because he had bigger things to think about. He had concluded during the course of his meal that significant changes had to be occurring in his physiology. He reasoned that some mysterious and perhaps mutant hormone or group of hormones, perhaps triggered by the progression of normal puberty, was altering the structure of his muscle tissue and eyes. Ben mentally shuddered at the thought that he was some kind of mutant. It was a startling idea, but so far the only reasonable explanation for his awesome strength and speed, and the unusually rapid development thereof.

Fortunately, the flashes of see-through vision were becoming less frequent, and Ben wondered if they would eventually disappear entirely. Then again, he wasn't exactly sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing. No matter how weird, it could come in handy sometimes, especially if he could learn to control it. Ben finally sighed in exasperation. He stood up, picked up his blue tray, and ambled towards the row of square green garbage containers next to the pillars.

Out of nowhere, his toes met an obstacle, and he pitched forward, his face landing squarely in the remainder of his mashed potatoes. Gary Fangler's cackle greeted his ears, and before he could react, two athletic arms were pulling him up. He thought they were Gary's, until he found himself standing face to face with the Fangster. Looking to either side, he found two burly boys who were at least juniors pinning his arms back. He almost moved to release himself, but smiled inwardly and decided to first give them a very false sense of security.

Gary sneered. "Okay, so you got me," began in mock surrender. "Dean Dafuntho finally got around to giving me more detention because he finally got around to your petty complaint."

"I'd hardly consider years of bullying petty," Ben said calmly. He nodded to either side at the backup Gary had obviously enlisted. "What's up with Crabbe and Goyle here?" he added nonchalantly.

"What is that, like, some kind of Shakespeare reference?" Gary asked indignantly.

"J. K. Rowling," Ben corrected. "But I guess Harry Potter is a little too advanced for you."

"My, we're brave today," he observed coolly, squirming slightly.

Ben noticed Gary's brief moment of unmasked disquietude and smiled. "You're scared of me, aren't you?"

The Fangster let out a raucous laugh. By now, most eyes in the cafeteria were on Ben, Gary, and his two right-hand men.

Ben continued, relishing the new position he held in this encounter. "I'm showing a little brawn, and now you can't face me alone." Once again, he momentarily didn't care about the origins of his new and immense fortitude.

"Don't flatter yourself, Kent," Fangler replied.

"Oh, for God's sakes, Gary," Francesca spoke up suddenly. She paused, trying to keep her cool. "You just got out of juvy hall. How many times are you going to beat someone up or spray-paint the walls before you get it through your thick skull that it's best to just leave people alone." She spoke slowly, as if choosing her words carefully. Ben's gaze met hers for a split second, and he could've sworn he saw that familiar flicker of concern in her eyes.

"Shut up, bit-"

"Don't say it," Ben cut him off with astonishing and commanding sternness. Francesca may have cast him aside and become a seemingly shallow and self-centered creature, but Ben knew all too well that even as she was now, she just didn't deserve so harsh a label. He realized that the desire to be popular is only human, despite the negative effects such a desire can have on a person's character.

Ben momentarily wondered why he was so forgiving, but Gary's voice brought his attention back to his surroundings. The Fangster sneered. "What're you gonna do about it?"

"Te advierto," Ben answered, knowing that an incomprehensible response would only annoy his nemesis.

"Cut the crap, Kent. You know I don't understand French," Gary responded, drawing nearer menacingly.

Ben scoffed. "It's Spanish, Fangler. Not that it matters. You barely understand English."

For a split second, Ben Kent felt fear again as he saw Gary's fist making a beeline for his face. Before he knew what had happened, he had been punched. Hard. But the only way he knew how forceful the strike had been was by the sheer speed with which it was executed. To his astonishment, he felt only a momentary pressure on his nose and upper lip! He felt hardly any pain at all! In fact, the power behind that punch had failed to make his head move at all!

Gary, on the other hand, seemed to be feeling all the pain Ben should've felt…and then some. His face was a gruesome blend of anger, shock, and extreme pain. He let out a terrible cry almost too high-pitched for a male voice. His face red, his eyes bulging, he bit down on his knuckles and let out a loud sound that resembled a cross between a groan and a shriek.

Ben recovered from his shock quickly and decided that now was as good a time as any. He released himself from the hold of Fangler's two goons, took each of their collars in one hand, lifted them both off their feet, and, seeing that he was conveniently only about eight or nine feet away from the green garbage bins, sent them flying with their arms and legs flailing only to land with each of their rear ends lodged deep in a bin. For all the strength such a feat would've required, Ben used only a fraction of his full muscular power, not wanting to send them crashing through the cafeteria walls as he somehow knew they would if he even approached his potential. Bewildered, Fangler's two bodyguards hardly moved.

Ben then turned to Fangler himself and wiped the mashed potatoes off his face. He picked Gary up by the collar, carried him over to the nearest wall, and pinned him to the brick surface. The Fangster's face was still red, but there were two new elements to his expression: surprise and fear.

"It's over, Fangler," he said. "Your punching bag has learned to fight back, so I'd strongly recommend steering clear of it."

Not even hearing the murmurs that had by then erupted throughout the cafeteria, Ben let Gary drop back to his feat, gave him a final glare, turned, and walked away. As he approached the door, Dean Dafuntho rushed in, walkie-talkie in hand. He was a tall and surly man with thinning brown hair and a dark moustache. "What happened here?" he demanded.

"Nothing, sir," Ben said coolly. "It's been resolved."

"You freak!" Gary shouted hysterically. "You broke my hand!"

"Kent, what happened?" Dafuntho asked again.

Gary's bodyguards finally climbed out of the garbage bins. "He threw us, like, ten feet!" one said. "We landed in the garbage bins!"

"How could he throw two of you that distance? You each weigh probably close to 200 pounds," the dean rebuffed.

"I don't know, but he did," the other bodyguard insisted.

The dean shook his head, perplexed.

"He's a freak!" Gary yelled again. "I punched him in the face, and it was like steel! My hand is broken!"

Ben half-smiled and shook his head in awe of Gary's frazzled state and stupidity. He had just admitted to an act of violence in the very attempt to convict his would-be victim.

"Fangler, didn't we just have a long talk about this?" Dafuntho said sternly. The disciplinarian looked around at the students filling the cafeteria, most of whom suddenly seemed fascinated by their food. Turning back to Gary, he continued. "You can't afford to keep this up. The state government's agreed to increase our funding for disciplinary staff. You won't be waiting around for weeks after vandalizing or bullying for that overdue detention any more."

Gary was looking desperate now. "But…" he began, opening his mouth to try again but thinking better of it. He finally gave up, knowing that his word against Ben Kent's was no contest. He took a parting strike at his former punching bag involving a certain word beginning with "f" and sighed in resignation.

Dean Dafuntho nodded in satisfaction at this and returned to Ben. "I don't believe you packed a single punch in this, Kent. You're too smart for it. But just in case you did, I'm going to give you a warning. Don't go anywhere near the path that Fangler's so stubbornly determined to follow. You will regret it."

"Thank you, sir," Ben replied diplomatically.

"Gary, my office, now. You two also."

Gary growled at Ben as he followed the dean, and his two thugs followed their solicitor nervously, obviously inexperienced in being of Fangler's creed.

The dismissal bell rang, and the entire school slowly packed their belongings and began filing out. Ben stood unmoving as the crowd flowed past him. One thing Gary had said had struck him. His skin was like steel. Were his muscles so dense that they not only strengthened but also heavily fortified his entire body? Ben decided then and there that he had to find out what was happening to him, because he hardly felt human anymore.

He noticed Francesca approaching him, trying to avoid eye contact as Jo and Grace followed beside her, stealing furtive stares at the new Ben Kent, whispering to each other, and occasionally giggling. But as she passed, she dared to let her eyes meet his. She was hiding her concerned and quizzical sentiments poorly, and Ben wasn't sure if he was comfortable at all with the look she had briefly given him.