Dr. Quantrain’s private jet descended through the humid Pennsylvania night, its engines a low growl against the distant cheers of the Little League World Series crowds. Williamsport sprawled beneath him, a patchwork of stadium lights and buzzing energy—perfect for what he had in mind. As he stepped onto the tarmac, his polished shoes clicked against the pavement, the weight of his briefcase—containing five vials of shimmering, untested formula—a thrilling reminder of the power he held.
Over the next two days, he observed. Not just the games, but the players. The way they moved, the way they laughed, the way their young bodies strained against their uniforms with every swing, every sprint. Three teams stood out above the rest, each with a boy who made his fingers twitch toward the briefcase’s latches.
---
Team 1: The Texas Titans (USA)
A pack of sun-scorched, loudmouthed all-Americans, oozing confidence and unchecked bravado. They strutted across the field like they owned it, their uniforms clinging to lean frames still caught between childhood and adolescence.
And then there was Liam Carter (12).
Dr. Quantrain’s eyes lingered on the boy as he windmilled his arm on the mound, his sandy blond hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. Liam had the kind of smirk that begged to be wiped off—preferably by something humiliating. His fastball was sharp, but his mouth was sharper.
“Nice swing, Patel!” Liam crowed as an opposing batter whiffed. “You gonna hit it or just fan the air for me?”
The batter—a wiry South Asian kid—glared but said nothing. Liam laughed, spinning the ball in his hand like a showman.
Oh yes, Dr. Quantrain mused, this one would be delicious. Imagine that cocky grin faltering as his body betrayed him, as his limbs stretched, his uniform splitting at the seams. Would he keep that swagger when he was looking down at his teammates from seven feet tall? Eight? More?
---
Team 2: The Osaka Blazers (Japan)
Precision. Discipline. Silence.
The Blazers moved like a single organism, their every motion calculated, their focus unshakable. No wasted energy, no unnecessary words. And at the center of it all was Ren Tanaka (13).
Ren was a blade of a boy—lean, sharp, with dark eyes that missed nothing. At shortstop, he was a flash of white and red, snagging line drives with effortless grace. His teammates spoke in hushed tones around him, as if he were something to be revered.
“Ren,” their coach murmured in Japanese, “watch the angle on your throws.”
A single nod. “Hai.”
No excuses. No complaints.
Dr. Quantrain’s lips curled. Such control. Such restraint. But what would happen if that control was ripped away? If his body swelled beyond his command, if his perfect form was ruined by sudden, uncontrollable growth? Would he panic? Would he crumble? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
---
Team 3: The Mumbai Strikers (India)
Chaos. Joy. Unfiltered exuberance.
The Strikers played like they were making up the rules as they went, their laughter ringing across the field even when they fumbled. And at the heart of it was Arjun Mehta (11)—a compact bundle of energy with a mop of dark curls and a grin that never quit.
“Arjun! Eyes on the ball!” his coach barked.
“I was watching!” Arjun protested, still grinning as he missed another catch. “But did you see that dragonfly? It was, like, huge!”
His teammates groaned, but there was no malice in it—just fond exasperation.
Dr. Quantrain leaned forward, intrigued. The smallest on the team. The one everyone pats on the head, the one who’s always looking up. What if he didn’t have to look up anymore? What if, in a matter of innings, he was the one towering over them all? The mental image was irresistible.
---
By the third day, the decision weighed on him. He stood in the dimly lit maintenance room, staring at the crates of Gatorade lined up for tomorrow’s games. The formula glowed faintly in its vial, pulsing like a living thing.
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