NBA Dramatique: Friendships

The General felt that his men were not ready. War was breaking out all around him, and he had not been encouraged with the performance of his men during the previous month's training exercises. What he did not want, though, was to watch his troops pounded into dust in their own headquarters for their first battle. He wanted to motivate them. He wanted to give them confidence. He wanted them to have a sense of hope, false though it may be. He had learned of the loss at the Bastion that King James had endured to start the war, and made the decision to attack the King on his turf.

The One Who Would Be King and the General had met several years ago. The General had been tasked with leading a special forces unit that drew from multiple armies, with the goal of suppressing outworld forces that might one day set sights upon the Prize. Though the Prize often changed hands through the course of war, it had never been removed from its home continent, and all of the armies wanted to make sure it stayed that way. A very young King James had been selected for that elite squad, but the General was not convinced of his claim to the throne. They disagreed with one another throughout that campaign, and it was ultimately deemed a failure. The Prize still remained anchored to its land of origin, but the decimation of foreign threats was left incomplete. King James was certain that the General had been the primary cause of the failure, and the General knew this. There was no love lost between them.

*****

Without warning, the German's fears began to play out. The Sky Fortress had moved a little closer each night to the Ranch, and now Deputy Bass could see that men were leaping from its bay with parachutes. Bass ran from his watch post to wake up the others.

As the Deputies ran out into the open, the paratroopers were already on the ground, freeing themselves from the entanglements of their 'chutes. A brilliant firefight erupted immediately, with the Deputies firing the first shot and then Major Artest himself igniting the counter-attack. It was a testament to the resolve of the Deputies that they would give no ground, as they fired lead from revolvers and rifles while their opponents attacked with futuristic lasers and toxins. Advanced weaponry had allowed them to make short work of the Bear Tribe just the day before, and Yao was optimistic that they could knock over these damn cowboys just as easily. As bullets and beams sliced through the air, he smiled, and ran into the thick of it.

*****

When Gibson the archer called down from the parapet that soldiers were approaching, King James tensed and quickly began making his way toward the young watchman. When he reached Gibson's side and looked out upon his land, he needed just a moment to recognize the approaching force. Once he did, he nearly doubled over with laughter.

"You know who that is?" he asked his sharp-shooting friend. "That's the old General! I thought that man had hung it up already."

"This is a friend of yours?" asked Gibson.

"I can't stand him. Fire at will."

*****

The battle at the Ranch had gone back and forth with both sides swapping possession of the upper hand. Though the Deputies were on familiar ground, they had been only observers of the fighting up to that point. The Sky Fortress had already worked out the kinks against the local savages, and her fighters had come warmed-up and eager for a fight. Each squad was slowly advancing toward one another as men would run from cover to cover, and the conflict was becoming increasingly dangerous. Major Artest had been carefully dueling with Deputy Howard for most of the battle and, while reloading, watched him run across an open expanse. The Major expected Howard to find new cover where he would begin again exchanging shots, but instead he watched with surprise as Yao came from out of nowhere to meet Howard. The Deputy and the tall munitions manufacturer jostled for a moment and both men began to reach for melee weapons that they carried. Major Artest sprinted to the two men as guns fired all around him. He reached Yao's side and began to pull him away to safety, though Howard believed he was under attack by both men. A group of Deputies were quickly beside Howard to assist, but the Major and Yao managed to hastily remove themselves from the area. Yao recognized that Artest had risked his own safety to help him, and some of his initial skepticism about the Major subsided.

*****

The Followers of the Sun returned to their hideout carrying spare Machine parts like trophies. Their achievement had put terrifying smiles on most of their ghoulish faces. Their celebration was cut quite short though by a clever ambush.

CP3 had decided that the HORNETS would earn a few more kills after tracking and assaulting the nomadic Warriors by blasting away at the already dead. He made certain that Squad Chief Scott procured some unusual supplies before dispatching them on this mission, such as garlic, silver bullets, holy water, and flame-throwers. He had not been able to find an entrance to the Hideout, but brought bait with him to lure the undead. Horry - the bait - was a crippled old man who had served some of the best armies in many wars. His final years of combat had been spent within the Machine, and the toll of the cybernetic conversion and subsequent purge was apparent in his hobbled gait. He had touched the Prize more times than many felt he deserved, especially the Followers. They despised the torturous cyborg they had known as H0RY-5, and seeing him now would whip them into a murderous frenzy, no matter that he was retired, broken, and free from the directives of the Machine. Horry had been bound and gagged by CP3 and DX (themselves feeling no kindness for the cyborg that they too had faced). They tied him to a post in the middle of a clearing near the spot the HORNETS believed the Hideout to be. Now, night-vision goggles activated, they waited for the hungry to come home.

*****

King James had grown bored with the trouncing of the General's army, and left the fighting in the capable hands of his knights for long stretches of time. He would knock a man unconcious, walk calmly back within his castle walls, perhaps grab a leg of lamb or squeeze the rear of a young maiden, drink from a goblet, then walk back out onto the battlefield and calmly kick a man in the gut. The old General was far too aged for King James to fight, so he simply looked at the old man and tightly grinned as he and his knights made a mockery of the unskilled lot the General had delivered. When enough time had passed and before the casualties became severe, the General ordered his men to retreat, and they obeyed the order with haste. The General had many years of experience, and did not feel the sadness of defeat as he marched his men away. He had accomplished several things. He got his men fighting. He had a real battle on which to evaluate them. They had done some things well, and he would commend them for it, boosting their confidence. Most importantly, he had inflated the confidence of an enemy. Confidence was something he could always exploit.

*****

The Major had gotten his hands on a rather impressive mortar cannon, and watched excitedly as the shell he fired arced high in the air and came down among the Deputies. The shell exploded, and gravity was defied for a moment by the bodies of self-righteous cowboys. It was at that point that the battle was effectively ended. Yao designed weapons that liked to be fired, and those who wielded those weapons obliged for a few more minutes. As each force accepted the outcome, and began collecting whatever pieces they needed to move on, Major Artest again caught sight of Deputy Howard. There was no weapon in either man's possession at this point. Artest approached Howard slowly.

"Deputy" he shouted. Howard turned and was at first angered at the Major. But he relaxed upon seeing Artest's open hands. He did not answer, but looked at the Major's face and waited for him to continue.

"I just want to tell you that you're doing your job well. You should be proud of yourself. I look forward to facing you again."

Deputy Howard watched the Major turn and join his withdrawing comrades. Howard wiped dirt from his own face and looked around at the wounded men and damaged Ranch. He realized that he would look forward to another meeting as well.

*****

Horry made muffled screams of terror as he saw the advancing undead race towards him. They were a terrible enough encounter when he had the benefit of seeing them through electronic vision filters and their odor was removed with the aid of particle-separating breathing aparatus. With human senses they were nearly enough to stop his heart. Horry closed his eyes and braced for a painful death, when he felt a tremendous surge in the temperature, and heard a chorus of dirt-clogged screams split the air. He opened his eyes and saw that his zombified attackers had been hit with the blasts of flame-throwers, and were rolling on the ground and slapping at themselves to extinguish the flames. HORNETS burst into the clearing at that point, lobbing vials of holy water and cluster-bombs of garlic at the Followers.

The chaos of war was all around, and Horry was struggling to free himself from the ropes. Suddenly, he had unexpected help. The Big Ressurrection, parts of his decaying flesh burning still, was loosening the knots that bound Horry. He was at first concerned that he was simply being unwrapped prior to eating, but the Big Ressurrection spoke.

"I still remember. We were friends. You should run."

Horry ran as fast as he could away from the center of the clearing. He looked back only once as he neared the safety of the trees. The Big Ressurrection stood still, arms at his sides, watching Horry run. HORNETS blasted his huge body with jets of fire. Horry turned back to the trees and ran as fast and as far as his wobbly old legs could go.

*****

NBA Reality, Oct 30

It's the third night of the season and I wanted to change hats for a second to just be a regular basketball blogger. I'm watching the Rockets/Mavs and just having some thoughts on the season so far.

How disappointing was it to see Oden limping down the court on Tuesday night? That was not the way that the season should have started for anyone. Even Lakers fans should have been let down. Don't quit on the Blazers though.

The Lakers aren't really interested in a relationship right now. They'll bring you to their place, do you raw, make you feel cheap and used, and send you home. But before you go they'll let you know that this wasn't just a one-time thing. It'll happen again.

I like how it's unacceptable for men to cry in public, except when they win at sports. Then you get your cry on, dude. Adam, I said "win".

Seriously, Lakers, did we do something to upset you? Why are you treating us so cold? It's like you only care about one thing.

Maybe I'm just a fan, but I thought the Spurs looked good in spite of the loss. Timmy and Tony just went off. 32 points each?!? Put Manu back in the line-up and they'll handle the Suns easily. That said, I thought the Suns looked good too. Shaq looked more capable than I've seen in a long time.

Pop wins the award for Coolest Human in Pro Sports Ever. Why? Goofing with Shaq flies not only in the face of the traditional bravado inherent in sports, but also is completely contradictory to the public perception of the Spurs organization. Thumbs up indeed, Pop. Thumbs up indeed.

The Heat looked like nobody told them they were starting the season on Wednesday. Like they woke up from a nap and were in New York all of a sudden. I think they'll get sharper, but Wade occasionally has games where I think he feels the pressure of high expectations, and can't get in the groove.

If you aren't already checking out my man Rob's site Upside and Motor, do so. For real. He also contributes regularly to one of my other favorites, Hardwood Paroxysm.

Hornets are about to come on. See ya.

NBA Dramatique: Falling Dominoes

Once the war had begun, it spread rapidly. For each battle that took place on the first day, four took place on the second. The outcome of many of these skirmishes could have been easily predicted before they even began. There were some notable conflicts, though, which were interesting in their unfolding.

Night had fallen on 7th Avenue, and dark clouds rolled in quickly to cover the moon. A strong wind gusted up the street, blowing random debris into the air. D'Antoni had been training his new customers to use their spectacular jet packs from atop the city skyscrapers, and as he turned his face into the wind and saw the ominous darkening of the night sky, he knew the time for action had come to them.

"Men," he shouted, "get ready!"

*****

Goran was awoken by someone shaking his body roughly. The piano player with the eyepatch was trying to rouse him from sleep, but Goran's slumber had taken on new heaviness since the transformation, and it took considerable effort before he was fully concious.

"Get up! Get up! Get up! We have something to do!" Eyepatch was excitedly saying. He moved away from Goran to another body and began the shaking of that one too, saying the same thing over and over. Goran looked around the room and saw that some of the living corpses were already moving about, having been awoken before him. Nash, the small pale one who had been helping Goran adjust to his new un-life walked over to the bed on which Goran had been sleeping.

"We're travelling tonight." Nash told him.

"It is not to feast?" Goran asked. He was not hungry, and the memory of his last meal would have made him ill if that function of his body was still operative.

"No" answered Nash. "This is more for...fun. See, when we were our old selves, we were consistently taken out of the war by the Machine. Every time..." Nash stared off blankly for a moment with sunken eyes, seeming to recall the almosts and nearlys that the Machine had denied him. He came back to the moment and gestured towards Eyepatch. "Amare especially hates the Machine. He thinks it has magical powers that allow it to cheat. He hates their cyborgs. He lives to destroy it. So Amare recently found out that it has gone active again, but with an important piece missing. The -20 unit is in a repair status and can't enter combat, so we want to attack it now. It will be far weaker without that -20."

The Big Resurrection overheard their conversation and shambled over. "Cowards" he said. "I'll make them pay."

*****

The men were lining up in formation at D'Antoni's urging, jet packs reflecting the blues and oranges of the city's nighttime colors. There was a fiery glow of red on the horizon, and D'Antoni thought he could hear the cacophonous shrieks of the approaching enemy. A tap on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts. D'Antoni turned around to find an angry bald guy and an angry fat guy staring him down. The Clown and the Clod.

"Yeah?" asked D'Antoni sarcastically.

"Where's our jet packs?" the Clown asked.

"You don't get one."

The Clown and the Clod exchanged angry looks then turned their glares back to D'Antoni. "Why not?"

"I don't have any more"

The Clod could see the open hatch of the chrome trailer in which the jet packs were normally stored. There clearly were a few still inside, each with a 7 stenciled on the side. "There's some right there!" he said, pointing.

D'Antoni didn't bother looking in the direction of the pointed finger. "Those are display models. They're not for sale."

"We got money, man! Sell us the packs!" said the Clod.

"I don't think you two are understanding me" said D'Antoni, looking from one to the other straight in the eye. "They're not for sale. Not to you. Got it?"

The two were left speechless for only a moment, then the Clown answered. "Yeah. Yeah. I see what you're saying. I don't think you understand the situation, though. That's our gang. Our Boys. They follow us. You don't get to come around here and flash your gadgets and tell them what to do."

D'Antoni allowed himself a chuckle. He then got very close to the face of the Clown and spoke in a serious tone. "Yes I do. The notion that that's your 'gang' has been reduced to opinion. Your opinion. I think you'll find that they no longer share your opinion. You and your big friend are not needed. You're not wanted. I suggest that you shut your mouth and find a nice comfortable spot to sit down because you won't be flying with your old gang. Not anytime soon. Damn sure not tonight."

D'Antoni gave them cold stares and began to turn away, then caught their eyes again. "And they'll probably punch you in the mouth if you call them 'Boys' like you used to. They wanted a new name with a little more dignity."

"Oh yeah? What do they like to be called?" the Clown asked with frustration.

"The Seventh Second Chance." D'Antoni turned and watched as his men took flight towards the arriving threat.

*****

The Followers of the Sun arrived at the quarry near which the Machine was stationed. They saw the vast form of steel silhouetted against the night sky, artificial clouds formed by its dark exhaust. No signs of outward activity were visible at the moment, and they approached cautiously.

Just as they had all gathered around the gigantic Machine and began looking for a point of access, a loud alarm sounded and red flashing lights illuminated their position. A robotic voice was amplified by loudspeakers proclaiming "Intruder Identified! Neutralize Threat! Intruder Identified! Neutralize Threat!" Without further warning a massive cannon telescoped outward from the side of the Machine. Its barrel was nearly two feet in diameter and came to a halt just six inches away from the face of the Big Resurrection. He looked down that barrel for a moment of frozen uncertainty, then a tiny gloved hand on a robotic arm extended from its depths. Delicately held between the first finger and thumb of the hand was a fragile daisy, petals ready to fall off with the slightest breath. The bizarre laughter of the undead erupted among them all despite themselves. The Big one then swatted the flower aside and said "Let's tear this thing apart."

*****

Demons were descending upon 7th avenue. They were an unsightly, cursed bunch. D'Antoni, though, was not terribly concerned. After all, he was quite well-traveled and had seen Demon infestations on more than one occasion. They could be quite fearsome, but they were also easily flustered and confused. D'Antoni was in constant communication with his fliers, keeping them motivated and focused. He was able to determine also from experience that many of these attacking horrors were young ones. They were unsure of themselves and still growing accustomed to their Hell-spawned abilities. There was one among them that D'Antoni recognized. With sadness he remembered the young man from out west that used to fly with his old crew, and shook his head with regret that he had been unable to prevent the tragedy of his demise. Maybe he's better off than the others, though, D'Antoni considered.

*****

Those others were currently busy fighting within the bowels of the Machine. Though the Followers' information had been correct regarding the non-functionality of the -20 unit, the Machine's cyborgs were not apparently lessened in their ferocity. DNCN-21 and PRKR-9 were viciously effective. The battle was tightly locked for several hours with neither force being able to demonstrate a definitive advantage over the other. The contest was not truly decided until the final moments, when the vengeful Amare was able to cause serious damage to a crucial motherboard, and -21 and -9 both had targeting glitches that would have otherwise returned to them the advantage. The Followers of the Sun took immense pride in their victory, and escaped from the Machine clutching wires and damaged parts in their rotting hands.

*****

A day after crushing the Underground with ease, the Master decided that a more public display of force was in order. In no mood to travel, he decided to unleash the knights of the Western Banner upon the Barony. His assassin again found little challenge in the task at hand, but obediently erased the dreams of any within the Barony that they could supplant the Banner. The beat-down of the Underground had been a warm-up. The attack on the Barony was nothing short of a slaughter. Baron Boom fought hard and did his best to rally his troops, but it was simply not within their ability. He cursed the betrayal of Baron Brand during the massacre, unaware that the former baron was himself witnessing a devastating attack by the Tribe of the Reptile. He too momentarily cursed his betrayal.

*****

With surprising ease, the Demons were sent back to Hell by the Seventh Second Chance. The longer they spent in the air, the more confident they became in themselves and each other, and after a long spell of repeatedly getting their asses handed to them, it was a great joy to win a fight. As the fliers congratulated one another and smiled, feeling happy to be a part of something positive for a change, they were watched with envious and spiteful eyes. The Clown and the Clod watched the men carefully stow the jet packs back in the trailer, and watched D'Antoni lock it back up. Their stares would have burned holes straight through the victorious squad if possible.

"What are we going to do, man?" asked the Clod.

"I don't know yet" he answered. "But we ain't goin' out like this. I promise you."

*****

Sorry sorry sorry

I know this is coming very late, and for those of you following regularly, I apologize. I had this written much earlier, but Office 2007 gave me serious attitude about the format when I tried posting it to my blog. Also, I was hampered by having to do work at my job, voting, trying to handle my car insurance problem (don't ask), and preparing to move this weekend.

No excuses, though. I want those following regularly to know that I'm going to bust my butt to keep this story moving. I'm doing this for me, but it is beyond awesome to me that you care what I do.

It may take a few days to figure out the best schedule for watching games/writing/posting in a timely fashion, but I'll hopefully come up with a satisfactory solution. Also, I'm looking at all of the games happening tonight and I want you to understand that I can't write about all of them every day. I'm going to be touching on the stories that I find most interesting.

Okay, blah, blah, blah and without further ado, here ya go..........

NBA Dramatique : It Begins

"Stand your ground. Don't fire unless fired upon, but if they mean to have a war, let it begin here. - John Parker

It was essentially a lack of patience that caused the war to begin. Young armies with lofty aspirations grew bored with preparation and decided that initiative was ripe for the taking. If given the opportunity though, each would likely change their decision and sit still for just a little longer than they had.

In the east, The One Who Would Be King awoke on that morning pledging to interrupt the legacy of the Bastion. The Prize had rested within their stronghold after so many of the previous wars that the citizens of that land considered it their rightful possession, and considered it merely on loan when not in their keep. Though they had rightfully secured it last time, King James would not allow their self-centered righteousness to be validated any further. The Prize would be his, and he would begin his claim to it by striking at those who had most recently denied him.

He mobilized his army and boldly led them to the Bastion, feeling no desire at all to disguise his intent. His men were dressed for war, and he answered directly any questions from the common people about their purpose: "We're going to win it all. We're going to hold the Prize. Anything less is failure."

When they reached the outer walls of the Bastion, King James grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground. He then threw it into the air and watched the wind carry it away. "War is in the air!" he declared to his troops. They were anxious, somewhat nervous. He could read it in their body language even though they all tried to hide it. Even for all of his confidence, he would be a liar if he did not admit to himself that he , too, felt the cold hand of the unknown squeeze into a fist around his gut.

It was the young knight Delonte that actually fired the first salvo. He threw two grenades at the fortress wall, and war had begun.

*****

Because King James made his opening move without subterfuge, word spread quickly of the start of war. The Tribe of the Great Stag had been lying in wait at the boundaries of a dilapidated headquarters. Redd had led his people to this spot for the purpose of attacking those that lived within - a weak and disinterested force, he had heard. One of his scouts had just returned with the news that the army of King James was marching on the Bastion. Redd took this to be a good omen, and decided then to strike. He stood within the shadowy tree line and loudly ordered his tribe to attack. They came out of the woods running towards the headquarters, screaming and with weapons held high.

*****

The Bastion was not ready. The Lucky Ones had celebrated their victory from the moment it had occurred, and were celebrating still when the first explosions struck the wall. They were no fools, though, and moved quickly into battle position both inside and outside the fortress walls. There was little about the ensuing combat that was spectacular, as both squads seemed to be shaking off the cobwebs from months of peaceful activity. King James could be a ruthless blood-letter at times, but the Bastion forces held him at bay. Likewise, Kevin, Ray, and Paul were deadly in combination, but the Royal Battalion was able to keep them separate and out of sync. The fighting was quite evenly matched, and it looked for the first hours that King James would achieve his initial goal of besting the Bastion, but their luck had not yet run out.

Leon and Tony were younger and less experienced than their more well-known comrades, but their contributions had been essential to the capture of the Prize, and their refusal now to bow to The One Who Would Be King energized the rally towards victory. They found the speedy saboteur Rajon and hatched a plan. Rajon began making excursions into the heart of the King's squad, while Tony and Leon followed just behind to brutalize the stunned knights. As the Bastion army surged, James grew increasingly frustrated with the tone of the battle. With the opportunity to land a crippling blow, his arm failed him, and Leon was able to slip past. Leon then detonated a concussive blast that drove back the knights and left no question as to the victor of this encounter. A few straggling swipes were taken by the knights, then the Royal Battalion retreated with their King.

*****

The Underground was in some ways the reverse construct of the Royal Battalion. They made their move under the cover of darkness, not parading towards their enemy under the watchful eyes of the day. The Underground was structured to utilize the strength of all its members, with an augmentation from their secret weapon: Oden. The Royal Battalion was designed to utilize the strength of their king, hoping to be augmented by contributions from those that he gathered at his side. In common, they both were confident enough to challenge a fierce opponent. As Leon deliverd the finishing blow against King James' army, on the other side of the continent the Underground broke into the castle of the Western Banner.

*****

The Tribe of the Great Stag had miscalculated. Skiles had become their medicine man after being cast out from this army that lived in the run down headquarters, and it was his information that led the tribe to believe they were going after an easy slaughter. However, the medicine man had never met the New Guy, and for all of the unlikelihood that the youngster would be able to lead this gang of underachievers, they were at least inspired enough to not let savage forest-dwellers invade their home.

The New Guy was far from perfect, but he brought his pride to the fight. His determination to live up to the uniform and the legacy of the Super Hero was apparent in his actions on the field. His presence alone renewed the vigor in several of his fellow soldiers that had felt it slipping away before his arrival. With each minute that passed, the followers of the Stag knew that the cause was lost.

*****

As they made their way through the lower tunnels of the castle, McMillan whispered encouragement to his fighters. "This won't be an easy fight. They are experienced and battle-tested. But understand that they are the present. You are the future."

They ascended a wide staircase and came to a stop at a pair of ornate doors. The maps that they had acquired indicated that these doors would lead them into the castle proper, and that's when the real work would begin. Oden stepped forward and knocked the doors down with a mighty shove, breaking them into splintering fragments. The rest of the Underground fighters quickly charged through the opening he had made into the vast castle foyer and found themselves face-to-face with an unpleasant surprise.

"Glad you could make it" said the Master from a balcony at the far end of the room. "We've been waiting." The knights of the Western Banner were lined up along each side of the doors that the Underground had just busted through. They were suited up and fully armed, and most wore expressions of cruel self-assurance. The Black Knight stood on the balcony beside the Master, wearing the loose and soft garments of a martial artist. He allowed a second of bewilderment and dread to invade the minds of the Underground fighters, then leaped from the balcony towards them. In the air, he drew a katana from the scabbard on his back and shouted "Attack!"

'It's a trap!" McMillan yelled. The Underground was too slow to react, and the knights were upon them instantly. It was a relentless attack. The Western Banner had an answer to every plan that McMillan had formulated, and demonstrated superiority in every possible way. Though the killers from the Underground made moves and attacks that were impressive in their own right, there were simply too few of those that could rival the onslaught of the Banner. Even Oden, the monster of a man, was overwhelmed within minutes and left lying on the cold floor of the castle. The assassin was able to take his time, take things easy, recognizing the inferiority of every man that faced him. It was like a game. The Underground was a collection of toys for his amusement, and but for a brief and ultimately meaningless moment of resistance from Przybilla, not one of them even gave him any real exercise.

When the fighters of the Underground were battered and bloody, with the result of their ill-advised invasion a clear failure, the knights of the Western Banner simply commanded them to drop their weapons. They complied. Aldridge and Przybilla lifted Oden from the floor and supported him enough to stand. The knights motioned to the broken door that the Underground had entered through and, understanding, the Underground filed back out the way they came. Their heads hung in humility.

"Come back and see us sometime!" said the Master.

'You bet" answered McMillan, the last man to exit through the battered doorway.

*****

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 28

In the brief span of time between the threat of war and the act of war, it is appropriate to stand as an outsider and examine the cause of war - The Prize.

The Prize is a golden sculpture, depicting the Earth at the edge of a deep hole. The intent of the depiction has been lost to history, but it is often interpreted as either being a representation of the world falling into darkness and uncertainty and in need of rescue, or the opposite - a new world emerging from the depths of chaos into the new light.

Thirty armies will spend months engaging one another in all-out combat for the chance to obtain the Prize. They each have their own particular reasons for seeking it out, and the soldiers, generals, commanders, bureaucrats, etc. that comprise those armies may have individual reasons for wanting it, but there are some common factors that make it desired by all. There are compelling reasons that this war is fought again and again, with never a permanent peace. Wealth is one reason. Those that come in contact with its surface often find their personal fortunes increased. Though this wealth tends to be fleeting, it remains a powerful motivator. Another reason is fame. If you make a name for yourself and your fellow fighters by claiming the Prize, those names are not soon forgotten. That reason plays into the third - immortality. Capturing the Prize is a terribly difficult task to achieve, and it can not ever be undone. If a man touches it just once, he will always have touched it. Its cool and gleaming surface will carry his name with it everywhere for all of existence, and for as long as that man draws breath, he will be reminded and questioned about his time in possession of the Prize.

It should be noted that these gifts increase exponentially with each successive capture of the Prize. Claiming it once makes one rich, and famous, and remembered, but capturing it more than once makes one richer, and renowned, and timeless. It also grants a perpetuation of legacy upon repeat victors, for the more often it is claimed by a single army, the easier it becomes to lure the best soldiers to that army, which in turn makes it easier for that army to claim the Prize again.

If at this point I given the impression that the Prize is an unwitting nonparticipant in its fate, I must apologize. The Prize has abilities that I have described above that may be supernatural or may be the complex mechanics of social behavior. But it also has a will, and an awareness. Consider this: the Prize was captured in the last war and is currently held by the Bastion. If the war were only the means to the ends of taking the Prize from the Bastion, twenty-nine armies would batter the walls of that luck-blessed outpost until it was no more than dust, then fight amongst themselves in a giant dog-pile with the Prize at the bottom. But that would be simple and dull. The Prize moves itself into the arms of those most worthy. It knows which army is most deserving of its gifts, and awards the force that displays true dominance over all others.

As the quiet of today draws its last breath; as those who fight make their final preparations; as those of us who watch and report wait with anxious excitement; as all good things and high hopes and fantastic dreams for all involved are, on this day, still alive and well; the Prize begins its long deliberation to determine if its current possessor is still worthy, or if another shall hoist it high above and find their own piece of forever.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 27

From the upper balcony of the Chamber, Arenas looked down at the display of spellcraft taking place. He loved the art of sorcery, loved it with his whole heart. From beneath the deep blue hood that covered his head, his eyes widened and his smile spread with every new trick displayed on the floor below. Brendan had just conjured a tidal wave out of thin air and just as quickly made it vanish - with not even a drop left behind - right before it had crashed down upon Grand Mage Edd himself. Arenas laughed to himself with pleasure at the thankfully surprised expression he could see on the Grand Mage's face. He walked towards the staircase that would take him to the practice floor below.

When he reached the floor, another Sorcerer was demonstrating a new technique. Caron started running from the far end of the floor. As he ran, he shouted an incantation, and a dozen large rams materialized beside him, charging at full speed. Caron stopped running but continued reciting his spell, and the rams charged on until their horned heads in unison slammed into a stone wall. The wall crumbled and fell into a cloud of dust, and the rams were magically returned to the elsewhere from which they were conjured.

Reluctantly, Arenas approached Grand Mage Edd.

"Greetings, Grand Mage." Arenas bowed slightly then pulled back the hood of his robe as he returned upright. "I've been watching from above" he said with a smile. "We've got some real creative stuff being shown today, don't we?"

"Greetings, Sorcerer. Yes, I like what I'm seeing. These guys have been putting in some serious work. But I'm very curious as to why I have not seen you earlier today." The Grand Mage gave Arenas a concerned but irritated look. Arenas had been going on and on for weeks about his new spell. He was a proud Sorcerer, and he had the right to be because of his talent, but he also tended towards boastfulness and hyperbole. There were many throughout the land that believed his strongest magic was with words, not combat, and he was more than eager to prove them wrong.

"That's what I've come to discuss. Though I've been preparing, and I'm greatly encouraged by what I'm seeing from the other Sorcerers, I'm not ready. I know that you are readying the Chamber for war, and I too sense that we're on the brink, but I must have more time to prepare."

The Grand Mage looked at Arenas for a moment without giving a reply. He put his hand on the young Sorcerer's shoulder and guided him off to the edge of the Chamber floor. "Watch them for a moment" he said, gesturing toward the other spell-casters on the floor. They had ceased individual demonstrations, and were using their abilities together. As they chanted and made motions and recited carefully transcribed spells from large books, mystical energy flared in colorful arcs and auroras around each caster. "They are powerful. Aren't they? Each day that they work together, I see the power increase. I've watched certain combinations grow increasingly potent. Of particular interest, Daniels, Antawn, and Caron seem to be forging an interlocking spellcraft of staggering strength." The Grand Mage paused as they watched those three Sorcerers simultaneously conjure complimentary elemental attacks. "Arenas, if you need more time, you can have it. I know you are talented. I know you belong here. Your friends will fight without you. I must warn you, though - they are becoming rather accustomed to doing so. I would go so far as to say your leadership is not guaranteed among them. It is in your best interest to conjure the most terrific wizardry upon your reunion with them, or you are going to become expendable or even detrimental. Do you understand?"

Arenas nodded. "Yes, Grand Mage. I will return as soon as I am able." He pulled the hood back over his head casting dark shadows across his face. This helped to hide the anxious smile that spread as soon as he turned away from the Grand Mage. Arenas knew that once he had mastered the spells he was working on, he would return triumphantly to the field of battle. He chuckled to himself as he thought of the Grand Mage's words.

"'The most terrific wizardry'" he laughed. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 26

The Band had been on a tour of small clubs before kicking off the full U.S. tour, and they had stopped in an out-lying city to play in front of a few hundred people. They had been playing for over an hour. The crowd was packed tightly into the little club and sweat covered each member of the audience. Large fans blew out into the crowd to try and keep as few as possible from fainting. The guys on stage baked under the hot lights, and they were at least as soaked with sweat as the people who watched them, if not more so. The band had paused between songs to catch their breaths, and the lead singer went to the mike with a casual step.

"I'd like to take a moment to introduce the band." The crowd cheered and the room echoed with the high-pitched screams of young girls. "On the bass guitar, let's hear it for Mehmet." Polite cheers.

"On rhythm guitar, the Red Shredder, the Machine Gun, AK-47, - Andrei! He's still got a free pass, ladies!" Screams and squeals.

"The beast on the drums, bringing the beats, we just call him The Boozer!" loud applause, mostly from dudes.

"On lead guitar, the man with the plan, the star on guitar, Deron!" Loud screams and whistles and the approval of envious men.

"And my name is Kyle. I like to sing for you." The ladies in the audience drowned out the other gender with loud screams of desire, and breasts were bared with great excitement. The Band then launched into another song, and the show went on for another hour.

Afterward, the Band was cooling off backstage. A long table of refreshments was in a state of disarray from the many fans, and groupies, and local reporters, and bloggers, and radio guys, and contest winners who had all helped themselves to the drinks and the food before the members of the Band had gotten to lay a finger on any of it. Everyone had finally cleared out and the Band looked exhausted, with shirts cast off and sweat-soaked towels hung over their shoulders. Their manager, Jerry, came into the room to address the guys now that he had successfully removed all of the unwanted elements.

"Alright, men. You did a great job tonight. I think the Trojan Horse plan is going to work wonders. I've lined up the tour so that we'll have access to venues on bases or near known outposts. In some cases I've even booked multiple dates. We'll procure legitimate finances through the shows. Morris and Ronnie will work the crowd from the floor, either spreading propaganda, picking pockets, or straight-up mugging. Fesenko and Brevin will fleece the venue of equipment that can be sold. The main idea is that we stay covert and under the radar as much as we can, then as forces succumb to financial attrition, we use our cash reserves to fund explosives for the overt strikes."

The Band remained silent. There was no need to ask questions or offer comments. Jerry was a cunning and experienced terrorist.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 25

Circuitry. Wiring. Programming. Commands. Complex engineering. Void of emotion. A product of industry. The height of technology. Form following function.

Imagine yourself as a part of these great wars, and imagine the hopelessness you would have felt against this enemy - a machine built to kill. It was a grinding, crushing, thrashing machine of slow methodical murder. It was a machine to break hearts. To steal hope. To suck out the held breath of anticipation. To end dreams. This machine - The Machine - was made to be the last word in war. You could not win against it if it ran correctly. Your only hope would be for some internal malfunction. It would be completely indifferent to your wishes, your efforts, your theories, and your theatrics. It moved only with efficiency. It would not celebrate small victories and it would not mourn meaningless defeats.

The Machine made its preparations to enter the war, electronically and mechanically refining its team of cyborg stormtroopers. The sub-zero liquid nitrogen coolant was replenished in DNCN-21. Mercury-balanced accelerators in the limbs of PRKR-9 were fine-tuned. Laser-guided explosive charges were installed in the knee cannons of BWN-12. Diagnostic tests located damaged gyroscopes in the propulsion system of GN0BL1-20, and deactivated the unit for repair and upgrades. FNLE-4 was rusting and showing concerning signs of wear, but the unit was stream-lined and polished. It was not ready for the scrap-heap or system purge quite yet.

The controllers of The Machine, hidden in a far-away bunker, planned as always to keep their hands on the levers through each battle, to gauge and tinker with The Machine until perfection was achieved. They planned with silent satisfaction to watch their enemies writhe and crumble, and then make The Machine kill faster.

The Machine is programmed to execute a single command above all others: conquer. The prime directive demands the destruction 0f twenty-nine armies, laid to waste by the gleaming construct of silver and black. Though it does not feel emotion, it does have memory, and can recall the fact that it has captured the Prize on four occasions, only to have it stolen away each time. It can recall the tortured cries of enemies as they experience hate and envy. It can recall the sound of bones being ground to powder by the gigantic spiked cog that once again begins to rotate as The Machine lurches forward to engage in war.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 24

"Alright, listen guys." The Brothers stood at the forecastle of the ship and addressed the men assembled on deck. "We're going to keep this short and to the point, because there's not much sense in doing anything else. All we want to do is make you guys rich and, in turn, make ourselves richer. We all know that capturing the Prize from the Bastion would unlock incredible wealth for all of us. We just don't see it happening, guys. Not this time."

The men in the crew gave a disappointed but knowing grunt of aggravation.

"Damn it. We're just going to float around again?" Mikki asked.

"What do you want to do, Mikki?" asked Brother 1. "Yeah, we're going to float around. We wanted a new base, we didn't have the money. We wanted to move south, we couldn't move. We made some bad choices with personnel. We made some bad choices in weaponry. Hell, I don't even know why we thought this boat would be a good idea! There's no other sea-bound army fighting for the Prize! Whoever we attack, they're gonna see us coming. Either they'll fire at us from land or they'll bomb us from the air. We've got some improvements to make and we just don't have any money to make them right now."

"You don't have any money? Really?" said Babyface, sarcastically.

Bobby spoke up from the back of the crew. "Listen, fellas. I'm older than a lot of you and I've seen good times with this outfit. Things are gonna be hard at sea, but you guys are a good, tough crew. Sweat it out together and we'll get better!"

The young guys on the deck nodded begrudgingly. They pretty much had to go along with what they were told - there was nothing nearby to which they could swim.

Brother 2 began handing out new uniforms. "Listen guys. Just do your best. That's all we ask of you. Put on your red shirts and fight as hard as you can when you hit the beach."

"Uh, Brother?" Brad spoke up. "These shirts are purple. Not red."

"Oh, uh, yeah. I know. Redshirts. It's a figure of speech. Ignore me."

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 23

Underground. They had been putting something together for a few years - not so much in secret, but trying to go unnoticed. Little by little and piece by piece, they had worked to get rid of the weak links. They had brought young fighters into the ranks and watched their development closely. The young recruits had learned to fight hard, fight hungry.

McMillan descended the stone stairs which wound in a circle down, down, into the darkness. He held a lantern in his left hand and kept his right hand against the stone wall to keep himself balanced. The tunnels were an old part of the city's underworld. Once they were heavily used, but had been mostly forgotten. They had been home to a criminal element that tarnished the name of the city and contributed to a bad (although deserved) reputation, so many people preferred to pretend that they had never existed. McMillan intended to change that.

He reached the bottom step and began moving to his right along the narrow corridor towards the facility. There were indications that something quite large had recently passed this way. There were deep cracks in the stone floor and huge, fist-shaped indentations in the walls. McMillan looked back over his shoulder into the darkness that extended in the other direction. He had a sense that if he moved in that direction, he would come to a familiar, heavy steel door, and that the door might be hanging loosely off its hinges. He continued forward. At the end of the hall McMillan's top man, Brandon, stood waiting outside of another locked heavy door. "Is he in there already?" McMillan asked. Brandon's bearded chin dipped twice. "How does he look?"

"Tired. He's looking pretty tired. But amazingly strong." Brandon was a top-notch soldier - a natural leader on the field of battle - and the man McMillan trusted the most. He would be entering his third year of war. He was anxious and determined to make great strides for The Underground this campaign, and had great faith in the troops that were gathering to fight at his side.

"Tired is to be expected" McMillan said looking again at the places in the stone walls that were indented. "And strong." The corner of his mouth turned upward in a slight grin. Brandon saw the look on his commander’s face and matched it. They were both excited about this one. "Let's go in."

Brandon turned and unlocked the door. It swung outward slowly on the heavy-duty hinges. Though the outside corridor that they spoke in had been narrow, dark, and cold, the area they entered was of a completely different nature. They were in a vast open room, well over a hundred feet in length and about half as wide. The ceiling was maybe 45 or 50 feet above them and lined with powerful electric lights. The dark hall was very cool; the large room was humid and warm. A polished wood floor helped every sound in the room echo loudly. Six men were facing off against each other in training exercises, three against three.

He was among the six.

McMillan could see that Oden was breathing heavily, sweating through his clothes, and resting as much as possible between exercises. He had been recruited over a year ago, but an existing injury had kept him completely out of the fight. His year of gestation had benefits, as far as McMillan was concerned. Instead of gaining a soldier that other troops might have looked at as a savior (and subconsciously putting forth a lesser effort because they thought Oden was going to shoulder the burden) they had retained their optimistic spirit and fought harder. They had become strong despite his absence. Now, his strength would be added to theirs. That strength was remarkable. He moved where he wanted, muscling other men out of his way. When the other men tried to move him, they found it to be as futile as trying to move a truck. When he jumped, the ground quaked with his landing. However, his fatigue was apparent and McMillan knew it would take more time for him to be in war-time condition.

But Oden was hardly his only asset.

The cabal with which he worked had assembled a true team of killers that were both calculating and dangerous. He had sharpshooters and explosives experts and murderous acrobats. If he needed someone to drive, or fly, or run, he had someone that could. If he wasn't their commander, he would fear for his life knowing they were out there. Aldridge, Blake, Outlaw, Webster, Przybilla, Fernandez, Rodriguez, Bayless, Batum. They were mad-bombers. They were throat-cutters. They were knock-out hitters. And ahead of them all was the young and cunning leader, Brandon.

McMillan watched as Fernandez made quick cutting spins towards Oden, staying low to the ground while Aldridge leaped through the air to attack Oden from above. Any other defender would be faced with certain death under this assault. Oden simply reached out and grabbed them both, one in each hand, and hurled them away.

McMillan could nearly feel the cold surface of the Prize in his hands. The Underground was rising.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 22

Goran was extremely tired from the long flight. He thought that if he would have been allowed to sleep overnight on the plane, he would have simply stayed in his aisle seat until morning. Instead he took his heavy bag out of the overhead compartment and made his way through the gangway. He had left his homeland half a world away at the urging of an unknown benefactor who promised him wealth and glory. All of the correspondence that he had received regarding this opportunity was signed simply "Followers of the Sun". Goran felt a sense of mystery and perhaps even danger about this curious invitation, but also sensed that he was being given the opportunity of a lifetime. Caution be damned, he packed his things and got on an airplane.

As he walked towards the baggage claim area, there were a few people waiting at that late hour for passengers who had just arrived. He noticed a tall, thin man wearing sunglasses and a long black raincoat who seemed to be smiling and staring at him. As he got closer, Goran could see the outline of a sun embroidered on the breast of the coat.

"Are you Goran?" he asked. Goran nodded that he was. "They call me Barnes. I hope you had a good flight, but I'm sure you are quite tired. If you'll follow me, we'll take the car back to the hideout."

"The hideout?" Goran asked.

"Haha! Come on!" Barnes put a hand on Goran's shoulder and guided him to the door. Outside was a black limousine with darkened windows waiting for them, and another tall man holding open the door for the back seat. "Raja, this is our new friend!" said Barnes with a smile. "Let's take him to his new home." They got in the plush compartment of the vehicle and Raja closed the door, then walked around the get behind the wheel.

Goran found the soft seats very comfortable. Barnes offered him a drink. He wasn't sure what it was, but it smelled strong, and was dark in color. Barnes was drinking one as well, so he drank it as not to offend. He had no memory of the rest of the drive.

When he awoke, he found himself in an extremely large room. From the high ceiling hung a gigantic chandelier. Heavy crimson cloth hung on the walls to appear like curtains, though there was no actual window anywhere in the room. A large man wearing an eye-patch played a celebratory song on piano from an elevated platform in the corner. Multiple sofas, over-sized chairs, chaise lounges, and beds were arranged around the room. On each was at least one man and and least two women. They were all laughing or loving, drinking out of bottles and large decorated goblets what appeared to be the same beverage he had partaken of in the back of the limousine. On the wall to his left was a large mural of the sun in the sky. It was chipped and looked prematurely old. On the wall to his right was a scene painted in three separate frames. In the first, men were depicted fighting in war wearing armor that was decorated with the same sun symbol that Barnes had on his coat. The second frame contained a damaged painting - the lower half was torn away - of a sun, low in the sky, with a human face that appeared to be crying. The third showed a night scene, with the same armored men, but with gaunt, frightening expressions on their faces as they tore their enemies limb from limb.

Suddenly, the lights of the chandelier went out and the room became completely dark. The assembled revelers howled and shrieked with happiness, their laughter became manic, and groans of pleasure became frequent. The piano continued playing but the mood of the tune changed considerably. Goran remained frozen in place, too frightened and confused to even consider moving. Then, without warning, he felt many hands forcefully grab onto his arms and legs, holding him tightly in place. He struggled to get free from his unseen captors, but could not find the strength to resist. He felt warm mouths attach themselves to his neck, his shoulders, his abdomen, and his thighs, then felt his skin tear open as those mouths sank their teeth into his flesh. The noise from the darkened room was a chaotic symphony of howls, screams, and laughter on top of the crashing minor chords that the piano player continued to bash out. Goran could feel his own warm blood washing over his skin as the hands that held him began to slip upon it. The mouths continued to bite and draw, and soon consciousness slipped away from his weakened body once again.

Goran awoke in the same place he last remembered, but he was looking straight up at the chandelier, the lights of which had turned back on. He heard low laughter surrounding him, and he turned his head without sitting up to see who was nearby. What he saw caused him to bolt upright immediately.

The people who had been in the room previously were all still there, but had undergone a disturbing transformation. The soft and supple shapes of the women now appeared rotting and grotesque. The men who had appeared athletic and strong were putrefied and nearly skeletal. Barnes was there. Raja was there. The piano player. Many others. Every one of them a walking corpse.

"You're monsters!" he said to them. They made bizarre laughing sounds and hit their own hands together in a twisted imitation of applause. A large, hulk of a man with dark flesh hanging loosely from the bones of his face stood and stepped slowly towards Goran.

"We are what we are." he mumbled in a low empty voice. "And now you are too." Goran looked quickly at his own arms and hands. He was pale as ivory, and large chunks of skin and muscle were gone where they had been eaten away. He could see his own bones in places. "No one else can see us like this if we stay out of the sunlight. We look the way we looked when you first saw us, and so will you. But understand - the sun has set on your old life. You are reborn. You will never die. You're one of us now and forever. Call me the Big Resurrection."

Goran was shocked beyond speaking. He was also beginning to feel hungry, and dreaded what that could mean.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 21

He rode quickly through the night. There were two reasons for his haste: the threat of capture and the concern of not arriving in time.

He had made a secret pact with the Revolutionaries to come to their aid and help lead them, but he was well aware that time was working against him. The Revolutionaries had to bolster their ranks, and if he did not arrive quickly enough they would outfit simple mercenaries to go into battle. Brand was not against mercenaries per se, but he believed in the Revolutionary cause and felt that he could be of greater benefit than any group of mere hired hands.

At his back was the quiet shame of betrayal. He had ruled the Barony for years, always struggling in the shadow of the Western Banner. It had been his dream and his goal to elevate the Barony to prominence. Just when the bureaucrats had orchestrated a deal to bring in a powerful cohort, he had a change of heart. Yes, with the help of a new ally he may have eventually toppled the Barony, but the other powerhouses of might in the western lands would be more difficult to destroy. Nothing would really change. Brand had become aware of a loose-knit group of skilled fighters in the territories of the east who were making life difficult for the Factory and the Bastion. Those fighters had heart and purpose, and it seemed that they did have the ability to shake up the unbalanced status quo. Their goal was to secure the Prize and restore parity of strength across the land. Brand admired them and their spirit in the face of adversity. And, to be honest, he had grown weary of the stale Barony and its’ problems. So he escaped.

Brand had pushed his horse so hard that the fatigue was nearly killing it. They had ridden through the dark night at top speed for eleven days, and the horse had burned through so many calories that ribs were prominently visible through its skin.

“Almost there, friend” Brand said, stroking its neck.

Coming around a hill on the dirt road, Brand saw the expected form of the sentry troop standing near the tree line – his rendezvous.

“Am I in time?” he asked the guard as he quickly dismounted and handed over the reins. The sentry, Samuel, nodded.

“Iggy’s not here yet, but he sent word that he’s coming.”

“Alright. Good. We need to begin. We have a long road ahead.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 20

The child had been having the dreams for weeks. Each night he went to bed hopeful. Each night his hopes were answered in his dreams. Each morning he awoke, sad to find that he had only been dreaming. Not today.

Most mornings when his alarm went off he got himself out of bed. He casually checked to be sure both of his parents had already left for work. He took a shower and dressed himself. He walked out of his bedroom and poured himself a bowl of cereal which he ate in front of the television. When the time came, he turned off the television, picked up his backpack, and walked out the front door, locking it with the key he wore around his neck.

As he walked to the bus stop, he usually got his first beating of the day.

There were older kids who hid in the woods and smoked cigarettes that knew he would be walking by each day on his way to the bus. They made a game of finding a different way to torture him, some days pushing him down, some days smacking his face, some days stealing from him.

On the bus ride to school he was not spoken to, and if he didn’t sit by himself he sat with another kid who had no friends.

During the school day he was usually assaulted two or three times between classes. Kids would shove him against the wall or knock his books out of his hands and kick them down the hallway. They would corner him in the bathroom and punch his stomach. They would throw food at him or steal food from him in the cafeteria.

On his way home, the smoking kids would get their kicks again by tripping him or punching him in the back. They laughed at him as he pretended to ignore them all.

Three weeks ago, he had been hit until he vomited twice during the course of the school day. The thought of getting on the bus with his tormentors for the afternoon ride home was more than he could handle, so he got on a different bus, not knowing where it would take him. He cried in the seat, sitting alone. He cried because he was hurt. He cried because he couldn’t understand why he was treated so badly. He cried because he didn’t know how he would get home. Because of his tears he had not paid attention to the route of the bus, and only got off at a stop because it was the last one and the driver told him he had to.

A few strange things happened to him that afternoon, and now is not the time to talk about them (the time will come), but he did find something that day that became very important. When he eventually got home, and after his parents had gone hoarse from yelling (out of love, he knew), he went to bed with the important something forgotten in his backpack. And that night was the first dream.

In his dreams, Dwight was incredibly tall. His muscles were well-defined and powerful. He had friends! But most importantly, he could do amazing things. He could fly. He could make things happen that no normal person could. His friends were always with him, helping him save the world with powers of their own. They fought against entire armies that actually feared his strength. He was happy in his dreams and loved his dream life. So most days that he woke up, he was depressed with reality.

Not today.

Today he awoke to find his legs hanging well over the bottom edge of the bed. He looked at his pajamas, shredded to tatters on his muscular frame. He held his hand to his face and saw a mystical glow surrounding his fingers. He stood up, and everything looked different in his room. Then he realized that he was looking at it all from about two feet higher, due to his increased height. He took two great strides toward his bathroom and looked in the mirror. Looking back at him from the glass was his dream self. Tall. Strong. Powerful. He could feel energy boiling within his muscled limbs. Miniature fireworks sparked in the palms of his hands. He smiled at himself, and actually found his own smile charming. He spoke a single word, with tremendous gratitude.

“Magic!”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 19

The world is put into motion by rich men. It is the actions of those with money that push change, good or bad, upon the rest of the people. In the time of our particular story, a rich man decided that his super-sonic air force was no longer of great interest to him, and no longer making him even more of the money that he already had in abundant supplies, so he sold his air force. He made a grave mistake in doing so, because he fooled himself into believing that his buyer was going to continue doing business as usual. He actually believed that he could sit back and watch the triumphs of his fighters, and share slightly in their victories without the burden of responsibility to pay for those fighters or a defensible base of operations. He was wrong. He came to visit his former base one day to find everyone vanished, no signs of life, and only the word “OKLAHOMAN” scratched into the trunk of a tree. So, now an air base lies abandoned, in ruins, and only ghosts defend its perimeter. But they need not stand watch, because there is no longer anything there to attack.

The man who bought the force saw no need to keep things as they were. In fact, he had his own reasons to change everything. The cost of maintaining this technology was astronomical. The base was too far away from everything. Primarily, he wanted to create a fighting force that was his alone. He had the money, and he had a plan. He conspired with a group of scientists and bankers to bring his plan to fruition. He had a secret weapon that could alter the weather, and it was his plan to use the disruption of nature to unseat more powerful combatants. Granted, his contraption was untested, and really no more than a prototype, not very likely to get a massive change in the weather to occur, let alone get past many of the warring nations. But with the right mix of subterfuge, misdirection, and time, he felt that he could get anything he wanted.

A new land, in a far away new place, the remnants of that old force began to reassemble. The men who remained were young and inexperienced, but hungry. They abandoned the visible technology of the old rich man's super-sonic war craft, and saw with their own eyes the terrifying splendor of the new rich man's weapon, Kw-Uhnx-Wa. They would go to war using fear and secrets, and they would use the devastating Kw-Uhnx-Wa to attack their foes with storms of wind, lightning, and thunder!

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 18

It was a lazy afternoon in the early fall, and the Boys were relaxing on 7^th Avenue. Summer was just on its way out and the weather was still pleasantly warm enough to enjoy the hour just before sunset. Malik was telling a story to the younger guys.

“Well, a lot of those years I was a cog. That’s right. One small part of the great big Machine. It took something from me, Boys. You go into the Machine and you aren’t what you used to be, but you come out of the Machine and a part of you just wishes you could go back in. It's crazy.”

“You ever get sick of it?” asked David. “I don’t mean the Machine. I mean do you ever get tired of fighting in the wars, over and over again?

“That only happens two times” said Malik. “You get tired when you’re too old to do it anymore, and you get tired when you’re too young to know that there’s nothing else you can do as well. You’re still at the beginning, David. It’s hard to keep coming back when you gotta work for a guy like the Clown, and you know you’re probably gonna get clobbered every damn time. He made it hard for all of us.”

“Word on the street is that the Clown is packing his bags” said Jamal. “I hate to see him go, if it’s true, but he sure did make a hot mess out of things.”

Nate looked around to make sure unwanted ears weren't listening. "If he's goin', I don't hate to see him go. Whatever happens to him is okay by me. And he can take a couple of his friends with him, for all I care."

Mardy laughed. "Things sure are crazy around here. I won't know how to act if it's anything different. We go into a fight and I don't know if we're gonna use guns or gum. One day we've got grenades, the next we've got rotten eggs."

As the Boys continued bad-mouthing their old boss, a large van with tinted windows was slowly pulling alongside the curb in front of them. At the back of the van was attached a very long trailer, shaped like a bullet and fully chromed. Words were painted on the side of the van in stylish script that read “Dazzlin’ D’Antoni’s Serums and Scientifia: potions, powders, and projectiles providing plentiful power at prudent prices!” The van came to a full stop and the driver hopped out and slammed the door closed. He walked around the front side of the vehicle with a mischievous smile dancing below his mustache. “Well look what we have here,” he thought to himself.

“Well, well! What do we have here?” He said quite loudly. “Seems I recognize you Boys. You’re fighters, right? I know fighters when I see ‘em! What’s the topic of conversation, gents? I’m in the mood for some good chat and I think I’ll interject myself into your discussion. If you’re not opposed, that is. I certainly wouldn’t want a group of fighters to have a bad disposition towards me!”

Quentin gave the man a curious look. “I’ve seen you before. Where do I know you from?”

“Well, son, if I had to guess, I would wager that you’ve spent some time out west. My name is D’Antoni. I’m a salesman, you see? I used to do business in the Far-lands, but I’ve spent my summer working my way towards this coast. I have to say, business has been pretty good!”

“What’s your business?” asked Duhon.

“My business? An excellent question! We live in dangerous times, and the threat of war is always upon us. I sell things that make war a little easier for those who need help. Got every gadget, device, potion, curse, weapon, or widget you could think of right here in my van. Now, I would never think of trying to sell my wares to you gentlemen because I know you have no need! I sell to only those who aren’t clear winners such as yourselves. Got to keep the contest fair, don’t we?”

“So, you are saying that you won’t let us buy anything?” asked Danilo.

“Wha..? Pff! Don’t tease a man trying to make a living! You Boys are quite deadly killers! I can tell just by looking at you! You have no need for what I provide!”

“Listen” said Wilson. “Let’s just say we were interested. What do you have?”

D’Antoni looked at each man as if they were joking. He put his hands on his hips and stared in apparent disbelief at each one of them in turn. “Wait a second. Wait a second, now. Something’s not right.” His expression grew very serious and he made specific eye contact for a second with each of them. “You guys are in some kind of trouble. Something hasn’t worked out the way you thought it would.”

D’Antoni let silence hang in the air for a moment, just to ensure he had their full attention. “It’s your boss, isn’t it? You don’t have to say anything. I’ve heard some things in my travels. You don't think you can win, no matter what you've got in your hand.”

The Boys looked to him like they were unhappy to admit their boss’s incompetence, yet eager for someone to give them new hope.

“Do you have money?” They nodded enthusiastically. Perfect customers. “I’ll tell you what, Boys. I think I can help you.”

They each seemed to grow slightly, or their body language changed. It was like a plant turning its leaves toward the sunlight. “You all have to make me a promise though. Understand? You have to promise to trust me, and to follow my lead. How about it Boys? Do you trust me?” They said they did in unison. “Well, forget the stuff in the van. That’s kid stuff. Let me show you the trailer!”

The men crowded excitedly around D’Antoni as he walked to the back of the chrome trailer and searched his key ring for the one that fit the large lock on its hatch. “Boys, if you’re ready, I can show you how to win a war.” He unlocked the hatch and opened the trailer. Inside were fifteen machines straight from the future, gleaming with chrome parts. D’Antoni looked at the men with a pleased expression. The Boys stood in awe.

“That’s right.” He gleamed. “Jet Packs!”

Pardon the interruption

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NBA Dramatique, Prelude 17

Scott came around the side of the conference table and handed a sheet of paper to his newest acquisition. Posey looked at the page he was handed and noticed the large CLASSIFIED stamp across the top.

“I have no doubt that you’ll fit in well here, Posey. I know the kind of work you’ve been doing for the past couple of years. We have a tight-knit unit, and I’m sure the guys will bring you into the fold in no time.”

As Posey read the document detailing his new mission, he thought back to facing this squad in the past. They were extremely dangerous. They were quick and deadly and they were rising as a serious threat during times of war. That hadn’t always been the case, but in the past several years a young killer had been leading them in the field. Posey saw him referred to in the document in his hands.

“Strike Force HORNETS proceeded further west from their victory over western Deputies and encountered opposition forces (the Machine). Tactics and strategies were correctly executed under field direction from commando designate: CP3. CP3 performed with a surprising level…”

“Our plan is to make a decisive strike in the coming weeks” said Scott. Posey thought that the squad chief had probably been speaking already, but he had been absorbed in his reading. “We have several possible target candidates and we’re looking at the advantages and disadvantages of those choices. Lowering the morale of multiple enemies by defeating a single, strong opponent is one of our goals.” Posey nodded in understanding and looked back to the page.

“…suffered from a combination of disadvantages. Commando designate DX was limited in effectiveness by minor injuries, and the squad as a whole was young and inexperienced in prolonged campaigns. Despite impressive assaults, the Machine withstood and adapted to HORNETS attacks and initiated counter-offensive measures that eventually resulted…”

“Of course, not every minute of every day is about our job” Scott continued. “I just need my agents to know their priorities. My priorities are their priorities. Do you understand?”

“I think I do” answered Posey. “You want a guy who isn’t going to mess up team chemistry, goes into his missions with focus, and knows how to listen.”

“Exactly. I don’t need anyone to come in here trying to make a name for themselves. We’re after the Prize, but we’re after it as a unit. I don’t have a spot for anyone chasing personal glory. I think you’ve had your hand on the Prize enough times to recognize that as the proper approach.”

Posey smiled and looked at the two large rings he wore – reminders of the ultimate victory. The rings were on the hand that still held the classified debriefing.

“…firepower of sharpshooter designate Stojakovic could be augmented. Recommendation of pursuing offer of agency to Bastion soldier Posey should be pursued. In addition to long-range sniping abilities, this individual has been observed to be a superb negating element against opposition offensive strikes and has been credited with effective sabotage against enemies. In some theaters of combat, this individual carries a reputation for…”

“So, are you ready to enter the Hive?”

Posey stopped his reading again, and this time he folded the paper into a small square and put it in his pocket. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Scott flashed bright teeth and nodded. He shook Posey’s hand and said “Let’s go.”

“I have a question” said Posey. “Do I get a code name, like ‘CP3’ and ‘DX’, for these debriefings?”

Scott laughed and threw his arm around Posey’s shoulder. “We’ll see how it goes” he said, smiling. They laughed together and walked out of the room into the long corridor that would take them to the Hive.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 16

It was a large house; a mansion, really. The black cars had arrived in procession hours earlier, dropping off passengers near the front while drivers took the vehicles around the back and the side to congregate amongst each other over cigarettes and small talk. The passengers had gathered indoors, resplendent in expensive gowns and tuxedos with cigars and wine and scotch. It was a gathering that had a social façade but the main purpose was business. As was the custom every year, after drinking and mingling and laughing at jokes, the important men gathered upstairs, behind the closed doors of a well-furnished study. Here is where the serious discussion could occur. This was the time and place to discuss business.

“Baby Don” Frank took his place in the large upholstered chair behind the desk. “Gentlemen, I want to thank you for coming to my home tonight to celebrate another year of business together. It makes me very happy to have you all here. Sit, sit. Let’s talk.”

The men found seats in various plush chairs throughout the room. The cigar smoke filled the air quickly, and most of the men held their tumblers of scotch and ice in the hand not holding a cigar.

“First of all, let’s get the easy stuff out of the way. We are financially sound. Most of you know that the intent of our operations at this point is to use our monetary muscle for a two-pronged attack. First, we return to New York, and stop running our operations out of this backwater outskirt.” This part of the plan was met with excited chatter among the men in the room. “Second, we leverage our considerable wealth to achieve legitimacy. We become the ultimate power, and we become unassailable. To do this, we buy the King.” This was met by even greater excitement and the soft clapping of hands. The men laughed with each other with cigars clenched between teeth. The Don continued. “I’m projecting that both of those goals can be met in about two years. For now, we have to address more…immediate matters.”

“Contract” Van Horn leaned down from behind the desk, placing a hand on the Don’s shoulder to whisper something to him. Frank nodded at the consigliere’s words and dismissed him with a flick of the wrist. “Well, that brings us to one piece of business” he said to the room. “Since his departure, we’ve been trying to keep an eye on the Kidd. Some of our long-distance contacts have reported seeing him out west. Seems he’s done exactly what we were afraid he would do. He’s got some new friends, and those friends wear badges.”

Vince “the Vinsanity” became unsettled. He was visibly angry. “Don Frank, we can take him out. I can take Junior and Yi and we’ll put him someplace that they’ll never find him.” “Junior” Harris and “Chairman” Yi nodded and seemed eager for the chance to take out the Family’s former ace.

“No. No. Settle down, Vince” said Frank. “It’s not that much of a problem. He’s far away and he’s likely to face enough trouble over there soon enough. It’s enough that we know what he’s doing, and we watch our backs. Let’s talk about now. We want the Prize. Everybody does. I’ve got people spread out, and it seems all of the fighting is about to break out again. I’d like to keep the Family out, I would, but we know things don’t work that way. I’m gonna shoot straight here, you guys don’t have the muscle right now. You don't have the muscle to take the Prize. We’ve gotta get stronger. We’re going to have to fight and show that we can hold our own because the rest of those jerks are gonna try to push us around. We might not be able to take over the town yet, but we aren't going to let them run wild through our neighborhoods."

Most of the men in the room looked questioningly at one another, or simply down at their own shoes. They had hoped for better news. But for the most part they were realists. More importantly, they were Family.

"In the meantime," continued the Don, "let's send them all a message. Capice?"

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 15

He could remember past achievement. He would take a group of men that were nothing but potential and would make them far greater than they had ever been. He made himself the forge, the hammer, and the anvil so that he could make them into swords. He could turn a man into a weapon of war, and then turn them as a group into a phalanx. They would hate him for it. They would feel abused and mistreated, overworked and under-appreciated. Then they would win, and feel like champions. They would understand that everything he had done to them was actually for them. He used to do it often, but it was becoming less common.

He could remember past glory. He had led armies that trampled their enemies into dust over and over again. There was a time when he could not lose, when he knew at the end of one war that he was sure to win the next. Those victories had become far less common. He felt in some moments (which he kept to himself) that the last victory may have been The Last Victory. He was old, he knew, and he was tired, he had to admit. He wouldn’t be commanding the army this time, but instead would seat himself within the bureaucracy and manipulate as much as possible from afar. Maybe if things looked promising after a few skirmishes, he would come down from his seat into the fields again. Maybe.

He ran one hand over his slicked-back hair and sighed. He crossed his arms over his chest and paced the room, thinking of ways to unleash the fury and the frustration he felt. He was a devil, and this was Hell.

Another man was nearby, also remembering past achievement. His memories were not so long ago. He was recognized as a fierce combatant during his first year at war. In his third year of war, he rallied his fellow troops when all hope seemed gone, and they conquered their foe, after conquering all others. He hoisted the flag above his head and the defeated armies looked on with blood and dirt in their eyes.

He was in Hell, and things had a way of coming undone. After his victory, he was being called one of the greatest warriors of all time. But then injuries and shame surrounded him. He found that his body was not strong enough to fight as hard as he had been. He found that his allies were not strong enough to win without him. They were crushed. They fell apart. Soldiers defected and even the commander seemed to give up.

He was not old. He was not tired. He was young and fast and strong. He refused to stay down if he had the strength to rise. He was not ready to give up and was not ready to accept defeat. He was working now to improve, and had been working for months. He wasn’t going to get younger, but he was getting faster, he was getting stronger, he was getting meaner. He was remembering the fire in his gut that allowed him to pull his comrades along with him when they were too tired. He was forgetting the doubt that had come to live with him during his periods of injury. He was finding the forge, the hammer, and the anvil inside himself.