The Gym buzzed with otherworldly energy. Dumbbells rattled on their racks. The fluorescent lights dimmed to an eerie gold glow, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Blue Boxer leaned one elbow on the metal table, giving Jubbar a sly grin. “Alright, magic belly. Let’s make this interesting. I want to be younger. Stronger. Faster. Give me back the edge I had when I was, I don't know, twenty-five or so.”
Lumberjack snorted. “Twenty-five? You peaked at twenty-two, pretty boy. I want to be young, too—but give me the raw grit I had when I was chopping trees and brawling drunks before breakfast.”
The djinn’s eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Oh, you want to be younger, do you?” Jubbar said, swirling his fingers in the smoky air, a grin growing beneath his thick beard. “Ahhh, I see you two are competitive. Always trying to one-up each other.”
He raised a hand, and the smoke thickened around them like cotton candy spun from stardust.
“Well, if it’s youth you desire… then let’s go for the perfect age for two hot-headed little rivals.”
The two heroes exchanged a glance—briefly uncertain—just as the swirling smoke wrapped around them like a net.
And then—
POP!
CRACKLE!
SHRIIIIINK!
Blue Boxer gasped as his boots suddenly felt loose around his ankles. “Wha—my gloves!”
They flopped uselessly off his shrinking hands and hit the floor with a thump. His uniform bunched around him as his shoulders caved inward and his arms thinned dramatically.
Muscle vanished. Height dwindled. His voice squeaked: “This isn’t what I asked for!!”
Lumberjack stumbled back, now swimming in his jeans. “What in the—?! My beard! Where’s my beard?!”
His voice cracked mid-sentence. He looked down, panicked, to see his hands now smooth and small, fingertips poking out of sleeves far too long. His shirt hung off him like a flannel circus tent.
Jubbar howled with laughter. “Ohhh, this is delightful! Look at you two! A pair of preteens play-acting as tough guys!”
Blue Boxer tried to stagger forward, tripping over his own pant legs and falling onto his backside with a thump and a boyish grunt. “You cheater! I said twenty-five!”
“And did you even better. You’re twelve, hotshot,” the djinn said, floating down and pinching the now-youthful Ethan’s red cheek. “Maybe thirteen if you drink your milk.”
Lumberjack—now a freckle-faced, shaggy-haired kid with wide hazel eyes—tried to roll up his sleeves but could barely lift the flannel. “I’m gonna chop you in half!”
Jubbar cackled, his belly bouncing like a drum. “You two look like you just escaped from gym class! Little muscles, little voices—little weiners swallowed up by billowing men's underwear.”
Blue Boxer's oversized pants plopped around his ankles, and he yanked at his tangle of boxer briefs. His blue domino mask slipped down over his eyes. “I can’t fight crime like this! I can’t even see!”
Lumberjack stumbled beside him in his enormous boots, his tousled dark hair falling in his eyes. “We’re... puny.”
“Your prepubescent!” Jubbar said, grinning ear to ear. “Adorable, squishy, baby-faced brutes in comically oversized hero suits. I like you much better this way. Shall I fetch you some juice boxes before your next big patrol?”
Blue Boxer crossed his skinny arms, cheeks flushed. “This isn’t over.”
“Oh, but it is,” Jubbar said, sinking back into a cloud of smoke. “You wished for youth. I delivered. You didn’t say how young. And now, you’ll just have to figure out how to be Grit City’s smallest protectors.”
As the smoke settled and Jubbar vanished into thin air, the two boys stood barefoot and blushing in the middle of The Gym, surrounded by gear and weapons they could no longer lift. The Gym had never felt so big. The echoes off the concrete walls bounced louder. The ceiling loomed higher. The punching bags looked like hanging boulders. And standing in the middle of it all were two bewildered twelve-year-old boys, swimming in baggy crimefighter gear.
Young Ethan—Blue Boxer—wobbled on bare feet, dragging his massive black-and-blue utility belt like it was a fallen firehose. His shirt, once snug across sculpted shoulders, now sagged off one bony shoulder. His legs, all scrawny knees and pale calves, poked from the hem of boxer-briefs like he was trying to wear a tent as underwear.
He looked down at his narrow chest and flat stomach, poked himself timidly in the ribs, and muttered, “I used to have a six-pack here. Like... an actual sculpture.”
Kid Jack—Lumberjack—grunted as he kicked away his size-13 boots. They thudded against the wall like falling logs. He yanked his flannel shirt over his head and winced as the fabric practically swallowed him. “I had chest hair yesterday. I was a lumber man. Now I’m a campfire kid.”
Ethan’s cheeks went pink as he stared for a moment too long. Jack’s scrawny twelve-year-old torso was pale but lean, his arms twiggy but dusted with the kind of scrapes only boys who climbed trees and punched each other on dares got.
“I mean... you still look kinda rugged,” Ethan said, fumbling with the massive gloves at his feet. “For a, y’know... little guy.”
Jack shot him a look. “What?”
“Nothing! Just—ugh!” Ethan yanked at the domino mask now drooping past his chin. “I miss my stubble. And my biceps.”
Jack sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m gonna need to adjust all my gear. My hatchet’s heavier than I am now. And my jeans have become a denim sleeping bag.”
They both stood there for a moment, heads spinning, arms hanging limply at their sides. The air smelled of sweat, chalk dust, and old gym mats—but even that felt like a grown-up’s world now.
“I used to have a jawline that could crack walnuts,” Ethan said, trying to puff out his chest and failing miserably. “Now look at me. I’ve got chipmunk cheeks.”
Jack snorted. “Yeah. Real intimidating, Blue Babyface.”
Ethan blushed. “Shut up. At least I don’t still smell like pine sap and beef jerky.”
“That’s man musk, thank you very much.”
There was silence again—until Ethan looked up, wide-eyed, at his buddy. Something fluttered in his chest. Jack’s hair was messier now, falling into his eyes in a way that made Ethan’s brain go fuzzy. And that goofy smile, all crooked teeth and overconfidence? It hit different now.
Oh no.
Do not develop a schoolboy crush on your partner in vigilante crime-fighting, Ethan thought. Do NOT do this.
But then Jack smiled again. “Hey, kid,” he said, nudging Ethan with his elbow. “You ever think we’re gonna get back to normal?”
Ethan’s heart thudded. “Y-yup! I mean, uh… s-sure. We’re gonna punch that fat genie in his fuzzy face and get back to being awesome and tall and... manly.”
Jack grinned. “Atta boy.”
And there it was again—that flutter. That dumb, warm, stomach-flipping flutter that had nothing to do with villainy or vigilante glory. Suddenly as vulnerability and immaturity bubbled up inside him, Ethan was being forced to confront how he'd felt about Lumberjack for a long time. It was easier to suppress it as an adult, but now--even as kids--he had to admit how much he liked him.
But this wasn't the time. They had a problem to solve. Ethan cleared his throat, crossing his arms tightly over his bony chest. “W-we should figure out... um… pants. Yeah. Let’s start with pants.”
Jack ruffled his hair. “Good plan, Short Boxer.”
Ethan couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Gosh how he wanted to give his pal a big hug.
"So do you have any pants that fit a middle schooler?"
Ethan scratched his head. "I guess, if we use some binder clips we can keep our underwear from falling down."
Jack sighed. "It's something." They two boys shed their oversized menswear and pulled the waistbands of their boxerbriefs taut, clipping them in place.
Somewhere, in the distance, a locker creaked open.
The boys froze.
“…Did you hear that?” Jack whispered, instantly back in action mode—even if he looked more like a delinquent from summer camp than a superhero.
Ethan nodded, already reaching for a comically oversized boxing glove like it would help. “Think Jubbar left a parting gift?”
“Only one way to find out,” Jack said.
Together—shirtless, barefoot, and drowning in immaturity—they crept toward the sound.