Chapter 411: In the Back Hole of the Cyclone

A little farther into the Slums, far from the hot lights of Unmaskings and whatever hole Jinzo was rotting in, another guy’s life was slowly going down the drain.

« I’m serious, » Roam said, smiling a little too hard. « Just two guys and we build a real squad again. I’m telling you, it’s exciting. We run the neighborhood games, a sponsor clocks us, we pull a crowd, and bam, we clear quals. Next season we’re in the league and we’re stacking credits. »

The three guys leaning on the alley wall laughed, a bored, mocking laugh that meant everything except yes.

« Come on. We have fun, and you know I’ve still got the best handle in the block. » He flicked his wrist like the ball was there. « You’re not even a little tempted? Star life. TV. Games with our faces on them. We’d be in every paper. »

« Yeah, that worked out great for you, you’ve become a real star, » the tall skinny one said. He shook his head, « Roam. Stop the cap. Everybody saw what happened to the Dust Dogs. Go pro just to get humiliated in front of the whole Underground and come back here with your tail between your legs... We’re not doing that. »

« We’re not trying to be the joke of the year like you, » the thicker one added, tapping his own arm. « Keep your crown, "pro." »

« Yeah, » the third one said, not even looking at him. « Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer the balls on the other side of a girl’s back. »

They laughed again and peeled off the wall. For them the talk was over.

« By the way, » the skinny one said to the others, like Roam had already stopped existing. « Speaking of Dust Dogs, there’s that new café by the old court. Rin works there now. Waitress. »

« Rin? For real? » The thick one snorted. « Think she’d still let us fuck her for a few credits, like back in the day? »

« Already tried, » the third shrugged. « Straight no. The girls changed once Nash’s boss started throwing jobs left and right. »

« Man, that sucks. I haven’t fucked in weeks... what’s her deal with thoses jobs? She want to make me feel ugly? » the skinny one sighed. « Waitressing pay good? »

« No idea, » the thick one said. Then he turned his head, slow, and looked at Roam. « But it sure looks like getting away from him works out for everybody. »

They left laughing.

The second they were gone, the fake smile dropped off Roam’s face. He just stood there, emptied out. Then he started walking with no destination, that last line turning over and over in his head.

Getting away from him works out for everybody.

He thought about Nash, obviously. Then Saya, who had seemed to be rolling in it before she betrayed all of them, before she vanished out of his life without a word, without even a message telling him to go fuck himself. And now Rin, apparently, who was making it, who had a real job, a real life away from all of that.

Away from him.

He wondered if that was actually the problem. If he was the black cat.

He crossed the street without looking. The loneliness sat on him like a condom two sizes too small that he couldn’t take off. He already knew he couldn’t keep doing this. Money-wise, it was past bad.

He checked his pockets out of habit even though he knew what was in them: almost nothing. Another meal he was going to skip.

Around him the shops were open, people moving, everybody with a place to be and a reason to get there. The world was still going.

But he wasn’t.

If he didn’t find a way to adapt fast, he was going to disappear with the old world, same as the Dust Dogs.

He was going to have to look for a "real" job. Just thinking it made him want to puke. Waking up every morning? At 5 am? To go to such a filthy, detestable, horror, such as... ’work’.

Oh God Hell NO. Not in this life, not in the past.

« Mom, look! » a little girl yelled near him. She yanked her mother’s sleeve and pointed at a huge ad screen on the side of a building.

Blacklist VS Colossus. Nash in the middle of a play, the camera riding him in a carefully choreographed slow-mo, then Seth on a spectacular ankle-breaker, ironically on Aiko.

Roam stopped.

He stared at the screen long enough for something in him to crack.

It should have been him.

That dream had been his before Nash even existed. He could still see himself as a kid, shooting for hours on a rim with no net, building this exact picture: his face on a giant board, the city screaming his name. He had given everything for it.

All of it.

And now... he was watching another guy live that life while he stood there doing the math on dinner.

Why? Why the hell? This was supposed to be his first shot at the stars. Why did it already feel like the last one? Couldn’t a man get a second chance?

He clenched.

« Why him, » he whispered, voice shaking. « Why does he get everything and I get nothing? »

The little girl kept bouncing, glued to the pictures. Nobody looked at the man standing a few steps off with his face twisted around a pain he couldn’t hide anymore, eyes bright with a despair he still refused to show.

He turned away from the screen because he couldn’t take another loop of it, and he started walking again with no aim. Behind him the ad kept playing, over and over, not caring what it had just broken.

Three days before the big game. 8:00 AM. The video room at the Colossus training center.

The room was at the end of a hallway lined with trophies. Inside, there were twelve leather chairs and one massive six-meter screen. Standing in front, the coach. He had a remote in one hand and a cup of cold coffee in the other. His eyes were bloodshot, the look of a man who spent the entire night obsessing over breakball matches.

The players however, same as usual.

Cross took up two seats without even asking. He was quite tall and he already had his feet kicked up on the seat in front of him, arms locked behind his neck. Kael was one row back, chewing on a protein bar with a face that looked like a miserable Sunday morning. Two of the substitute players were slouching near the aisle, barely paying attention.

Then there was Seth. He was all the way in the back, leaning against the wall in the last chair. He had a ball on his lap, both hands gripping it. He hadn’t said a single fucking word since he had walked in.

"Alright," the coach said. "Blacklist."

He clicked the remote.

The screen showed a dark warehouse with harsh halogen lights and asphalt that looked like it was glistening. A group of players dressed in black walked into the frame. But, surprise. They weren’t street thugs or the usual scarred-up giants you’d expect.

They were girls. Lots of them. They were wearing custom gear, some had colored hair, one had a ribbon, and five of them were wearing masks. Their jerseys were tight, and some of them looked more like skimpy bikinis than actual sports gear.

Cross burst out laughing before the coach could even finish his sentence.

"Wait, what? These are the opponents?" Cross laughed. "We woke up at seven in the morning for a team of girls? And they’re tin... Wait wait wait... that one... is she actually a fucking kid?"

"She might look like a kid," the coach replied, "but she’s one of the best shooters this season. Gentlemen, meet your opponents: Baby-Boom, and the veterans of Blacklist. Thirteen girls on the roster. Plus... the problem."

Silence filled the room for a second, and then Cross absolutely lost it.

He laughed so hard he had to take his feet off the chair just to double over. Two or three other guys joined in, slapping the armrests.

"One guy and thirteen girls!" Cross wiped a tear from his eye. "Lucky bastard. Coach, you really made us get up at seven to look at some guy’s personal harem? We’ve gotta deal with smelling each other’s dicks in the locker room, and this guy is surrounded by tits!"

"They’re idols," someone from the back joked. "What, are they gonna do a dance at halftime?"

One of the substitutes leaned forward, squinting at the screen.

"Wait... we’ve played these bitches before."

The mood shifted. The laughter wasn’t as loud anymore.

"Yeah," Kael said, still chewing his protein bar. "Baby-Boom. An idol group that either gives concerts or throws orgies. Something like that."

"Man, how is it one or the other?" Cross raised an eyebrow.

Kael just shrugged.

"Why do you care? We buried them anyway. What was the score again?"

"Nothing important then," Cross rolled his eyes. "That little shooter? She’s gonna snap in half the moment she gets an elbow in the face... or a dick, given how small she is. We’ll crush them in forty minutes and leave them some time to pose for the cameras at the end."

The coach kept talking, but nobody was listening. All the players were staring at the screen, and the conversation had nothing to do with Breakball anymore.

"I’m just saying," one of the subs muttered, "if we have to stare at a roster of girls for an hour, they should at least be doing some work. Look at the tall one. The Amazon. Look at those thighs. You can see the rest is huge. The tits, the ass, the whole package. I want her to crush me. The kind of girl who sits on your face and you just disappear."

"I like the tall Asian one better," the first guy replied. "She’s beautiful, but not too ’sexy’ or ’cute,’ y’know? She’s the kind who’ll age well. Total MILF potential. I’d love to get her dirty."

Cross snorted, feeling smug.

"You guys don’t know shit. Tomboy versus Bimbo, that’s the real debate. That tomboy is a bombshell who’ll run right through you. Look at those racks, those bumpers. And the other one with the airhead look... she’s the full package. Huge tits, fat ass, the whole kit."

"Bimbo," Kael chimed in. "I vote bimbo. You want an Amazon who’ll drain you in two minutes. I want something that bounces and makes you want to smash it."

They leaned in, debating Amazons, tomboys, and bimbos. Who would last longer? Who would scream first? All bets on.

Then, a third guy, sitting further back, muttered almost to himself.

"Yeah, keep your big boobs and asses, it’s always the same shit. I like something exotic. Like that little one... looks like it would be an interesting experience, you know? Hehe..."

...

Nothing.

The air suddenly went dead silent. The guy felt the change and looked toward his teammates.

Every single one of them was staring at him.

"Oi... dude."

"Someone mute this pedo in the group chat," Cross said, flicking his hand like a whip.

The guy quickly put his hands up.

"She’s legal! Look at her eyes, she’s Chinese, she’s just small—"

"Chinese? Now he’s a racist too!" the interior by the aisle added. "Don’t mute him. Ban him."

The mood broke into loud laughter, someone slapped an armrest, and Cross held his stomach, wheezing. The coach waited for them to shut up, looking completely bored, and resumed as if he hadn’t heard a word of the filth.

"Laugh it up. Go ahead."

He pressed the remote. The photos disappeared, and only one image remained, filling the entire screen. A tall man with broad shoulders and a cold, dead stare, wearing a black jersey.

The man of the hour. The inspiration for the youth and the living nightmare for adults.

Nash.

"Him."