One of the most convenient things about being a pineapple is that nobody is ever looking for a pineapple.

  They look for lost items, reasons to live, and good stories to read. They find them in the places they expect. Peter Lumpowski knew, most people train themselves to look for things where they want to find them.

  If you had the power to literally transform yourself into a pineapple like Peter did, hiding yourself was simple.

  His current hidden spot was the most obvious yet. He was perched on top of the lockers like a lost piece of fruit. “She never looks up anyway,” Peter thought.

  Peter did a lot of hiding. He was skinny, with choppy green hair. If you saw him in the hallway, you might think his backpack was wearing him.

  But you didn’t see him in the hallway. Peter always seemed to be hidden even when he was in plain sight.

  Students from Oracle filled the pristine hallway. They were all Prophesized. From birth, they had prescribed fates- and power.

  Most were ordinary. Prophecy didn’t make you special.

  You will do laundry containing the hero’s armor.

  Your song will be a part of the final celebration.

  Your picture will adorn a wall broken by the army of evil.

  However mundane, It was destiny. Part of being a Prophesized.

  A ruddy voice called above the stream. Past the collection of costumes and augmentations.

  “Hey! I’m not finished ‘till I beat everyone. You still have to fight me!” A tuft of red hair bounced in its trademark quaff.

  “Quit hiding from me. Come on Peter.”

  A face bobbed below the hair. Dish-like, with dinner-plate eyes to match.

  Rashomon “Rush” Richards often felt she had to work harder than the others to be more intimidating – she was doing her best with that.

  She would tell whoever would listen about her prophecy, but their impressed smiles always faded once they got to know her. This made them more impressed when she caught their fake jaws with her fist.

  “I’m gonna punt you over the training field. Fight me!”

  The other students parted around the youth with practiced boredom. This was lunch, and Rush’s training was a daily detour.

  It seemed pointless, Rush had already defeated all the other students attending Oracle. They had all lost as soon as they squared up. Later they dealt with her bragging.

  Easy enough to deal with, just tuck your head down. Eventually even talking about avoiding it was too much effort. It was easier to rush past.

  There was no reason Rush should be interested in fighting the student with the worst prophecy and most embarrassing power.

  Prophecy was literal.

  If all Peter would do is turn into a pineapple, they saw no reason to care. Peter would run away like he always did, it would be no contest.

  Here at Oracle Institution for Prophesized: Prophecy is power. And Rush had the best prophecy.

  In class, their powers were tested. Means to fulfill their prophecy, the students worked to understand them.

  Powers always had their use.

  Wearing clothes for five minutes makes them clean.

  Making your lyrics memorable for the next year.

  A smile that calms anyone who sees it.

  Rush kept talking.

  “I’m going to face the forces of evil head-on and win. I can’t turn my back on them, and I can’t turn my back on you, citrus boy”.

  Like the others, Peter had heard this before. And even if he hadn’t, there were so few Prophesized, and they all lived on the Nimbus. Easy enough to find out.

  Rush looked forward. She saw lockers, a few students, and too many hiding places.

  He wouldn’t be anywhere she thought was obvious. He was too clever for that.

  A little property damage was ok. The Bureau would pay for it. They always did.

  She kept the lockers full in her vision and started crashing through them. As her shoulder touched the blue metal, it crumpled and slid to the side.

  Peter felt the vibrations move steadily away from him.

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  He knew Rush wasn’t as inevitable as she pretended—but he also knew that facing her head-on was impossible.

  That was no reason to give up. It only meant he had to beat Rush without a fight. If he wanted to win, he had to run.

  And he wanted to win.

  Not because he disliked Rush. He felt she was straightforward to a fault. Admirable for doubling down on being herself.

  Rush was the only one who took him seriously. Even if it was out of some bizarre drive to defeat the entire student body.

  He wanted to win because it would be proof he survived. He wanted to yell back at every biting comment.

  “My prophecy is that I will become a pineapple, and if anyone has a problem with that, they can fight me”.

  For weeks now he had managed to evade Rush, staying hidden by stowing away in other students’ backpacks when the day ended.

  She had busted through the classroom wall, expecting to catch him mid assignment. She found detention while Peter watched her get chewed out the vents.

  To avoid her in the morning, Peter arrived before dawn only to discover that the doors were shuttered, and guards patrolled the campus.

  The loading bay outside the cafeteria was less staffed. Shipments from the previous night were piling up. Peter found a football-sized spot in the crates, activated his power, and waited.

  The atmospheric regulators hadn’t been turned on, but the sharp cold air and lack of oxygen were bearable as a fruit. At least, for a short time before he would wilt.

  Peter had just convinced himself he’d miscalculated; certain he was going to freeze — when an airship delivering produce finally arrived.

  It turns out Pineapples can feel relief.

  He left himself strategically in the path of the truck driver. Her prophecy, you will deliver food that enables heroics, was scrawled on her mud flaps.

  She called the Bureau days later in a panic. Her power to make supplies load itself was fading. They told her,

  “Your prophecy was fulfilled. You just didn’t notice.”

  Peter thought today’s cat-and-mouse chase would be simple. He stopped feeling the vibrations.

  He should have realized the inevitable. His hiding spot was too obvious.

  Rush’s persistence had beaten his planning. She turned around.

  She looked up and saw yellow.

  One of the worst things about being a pineapple is that Peter couldn’t move. Fruit can grow, but it can hardly avoid an overeager teenager.

  Peter felt himself being grabbed by his leaves. He could feel her calloused hands gripping him.

  Peter was grateful pineapples couldn’t feel pain. Rush was never gentle.

  “Hah! Sorry if you’re lunch, but I’m finding out.” Rush cocked Peter like a baseball and pitched him down the hallway.

  “Either you’re wall smoothie or we fight.”

  At his current speed, Peter knew Rush was right. It might hurt like hell to get thrown around when he was made of hamburger like everyone else. But when he was fruit?

  That kind of impact would turn him into pulp. He’d be a stain on the wall. Worse, he’d be a joke.

  Peter turned back into human form. One instant he was a pineapple. The next: Peter.

  His momentum jumped. A sudden 140 pounds of flesh was added to his momentum—and to the pain in his back.

  Later, the janitor would discover the real extent of the crash. A four-foot-thick concrete pillar behind the wall had cracked. He had to replace the entire foundation.

  His prophecy that had secured his job was fulfilled at this moment.

  You will repair the vessel that bears a hero.

  When he lost his power to make tools from popsicle sticks weeks later, he notified the Bureau immediately.

  Rush called out down the hallway as Peter wobbled upright. Others would think she was being arrogant. Peter only heard an honest challenge.

  “More?”

  Peter was ready. “Bring it.” He scrambled around the corner and began to run away. He could hear Rush stamping down the linoleum after him.

  “Son of a “.

  Peter had prepared for this confrontation. He always had time to plan while he was fruit.

  He had seen the boasting and beaten challengers and if Rush’s power worked as he suspected, his strategy would work.

  Her power was as unflinching as her prophecy. Any danger she saw coming was blocked, regardless of its strength.

  The losers believed Rush’s power made her invincible. Peter planned differently.

  First, he had to test. He pressed his back flat against the doorway around the corner.

  He waited. The smacking against the linoleum got louder.

  Before he could even see her, Peter kicked at the air as he imagined Rush rounding the corner.

  His sneaker struck flesh.

  He miscalculated. He was sure he had only hit her fingers.

  Rush yelped out in pain. Instinctively, Rush grabbed at her hand, bringing it to her stomach for protection.

  “That hurt her.” Peter thought, surprised that he felt a sting of guilt. For a short moment, without her bravado, she looked vulnerable.

  She flinched like she had never been hit before.

  Still, it meant he was right. Her power only activated if she saw the danger coming. Her confidence was a shield, but that meant it only worked facing outwards.

  “Eyes open,” Rush reminded herself, snapping her head up — just in time to see Peter’s fist flying at her.

  “Too damn late Dole-Boy.” Although he couldn’t see the barrier, Peter felt his hand stopped before it could down his opponent.

  His fist hit something hard. Several of his fingernails cracked.

  Rush squared her feet, staring down Peter properly. To her surprise, he wasn’t scared. Peter seemed interested, engaged even.

  “So, it’s like that,” Peter mumbled sucking on one of his bleeding fingers.

  He observed, her power was a Condition, not an Alter. It was a rule he would have to work around.

  But so did she.

  Second, he had to survive. Rush was already charging, and Peter knew he couldn’t survive another hit.

  Positioned squarely in the hallway as he was, running away wasn’t an option.

  A direct blow would be like facing down an angry tractor, taking it to the back would be like getting run over.

  “No more options, if you’re going to fall, fall forward. Show them you’ll survive even if you lose.”

  Peter stepped forward. He slipped his arms out of his shirt sleeves and leaving it hanging in the air as he turned into a pineapple.

  To Rush it was as if her opponent disappeared, leaving nothing but a cotton ghost. She stumbled forward, the shirt wrapping around her face.

  Struggling to keep her balance and blind, she lunged forward, hoping to find somewhere to regain her footing. Rather than grippy linoleum, she stepped on Peter instead.

  Third, he had to strike. Peter shifted back to teenager, his mass pushing against what was already there. In this case that was Rush.

  Rush cannoned into the ceiling, leaving a crater. Square tiles and dust scattered on the floor; More work for the janitor.

  A small crowd of students formed a ring around the pair. Phones appeared as though they were members of the press.

  Rush had never been hit like this before and they couldn’t wait to replay it the next time she bragged about her prophecy.

  Rush began to laugh as she hacked up bits of ceiling tile. She kept her eyes open, through the coughing. She didn’t see the crowd or the debris, or even the principal approaching behind them.

  She only saw a worthy opponent. She pointed at Peter and nodded.

  “More.”

  Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. It tasted like ceiling and sweat. He had survived. He proved he could win.

  The fight wasn’t over yet.

  He opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by a stern voice. The principal loomed behind him.

  “Absolutely not. My office. Now.”