It began like this; a blistering afternoon in July, some with a grudge, and the smell of freshly-mown grass.  Im Jaebum was in the middle of explaining to some kid that, for the 100th time, he had never even spoken to the girl they were apparently competing for, when suddenly the other boy was swinging a fist at his face.  He barely had time to flinch before the fist aimed for his head stopped dead against his cheek.  He felt a little warm, like his skin was flushing.  His would-be-attacker stared at him in surprise and lowered his hand quickly, stumbling backwards.

    “You—you—how did—,” the boy—Kim something, Jaebum remembered, a hothead from science class—spluttered, throwing a final dirty look over his shoulder and taking off down the street.

    “Powered,” Jaebum whispered to himself.  He was Powered.  So much for starting middle school.

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    The next few weeks were a blur.  His parents were really great about it, once they got over their initial shock.  The proper authorities were contacted, his school was informed, tests were administered.  Blood tests, fitness tests, intelligence tests.  Run this far, run this fast, look here, lift this.  There were a lot of questions, too, a woman in a sharp black blazer peering gently at him from behind her desk; What did it feel like when he hit you?  What did it feel like after he hit you?  What were you arguing about?  Have you been in fights before?  Jae-bum knew that these questions were even more imp