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

I wanted to take a minute to say thanks to everyone that has let me know how much they are enjoying my stuff here. It's great to think that my insane idea is entertaining people, and your comments are very encouraging. If you post a comment, I'm usually responding back in the comments myself, but if you leave an e-mail address I'd be happy to write you back. Also you can find a few ways to contact me by viewing my profile on the blog. Finally, I'd like to ask that if you like what I'm doing, tell other people about it! I'm trying to grow my audience as much as possible, so e-mail your friends, post links on MySpace and Facebook, leave comments on other blogs, anything. I'm writing for my own enjoyment, and I'm happy if 5 other people are reading it, but I'm even happier if 5000 people are reading it.

Thanks again! I love getting your feedback, so keep it coming.

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.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 14

“In the name of the Great Reptile, I call you to order! The Council of Totemic Tribes is now convened! Let us bring our people together in peace for one night, for the outbreak of war looms, and it will likely be many months before we can unite as brothers and sisters of nature again.” Bosh stood on the dais made of freshly cut logs, his skin illuminated by the firelight of torches. All of the people of the four Totemic Tribes had come together in the great forest for this summit, and they were intermingled in a large mass before the dais. “The Reptile has blessed my people. He has granted his ferocious attack to our tribesmen, and we now instill fear in our enemies. With his speed, we attack! With his claws, we attack! With his teeth, we attack! In the last great war, our tribe was in battle for many days after the rest of you had accepted defeat. I stand before you now, brothers and sisters, to remind you of what we all face. Our people adhere to the ways of the Earth, and we use what the Earth and the Great Beasts provide us to fight our wars. But the armies of the lands around us do not maintain their link to nature, and have created unnatural things with which to do war. On the field of battle, we face weapons of all variety. We’ll see swords of steel; projectiles of lead, fire, wood; sorcery of great power; all manners of technology. May the Spirits protect us and help us overtake them!”

From the crowd a voice shouted out. “Bosh speaks true!” The crowd shuffled as the man with the voice made his way to the front and climbed the dais to stand beside Bosh. “I am Redd, and Bosh is a wise and true friend, though we are of different tribes. The Great Stag has blessed my people. Our enemies will be pierced by his crown of antlers and trampled beneath his hooves! Though the enemies will come at us from the sky and the sea, and from all directions on land, we have the will of the Great Spirits on our side. We must not lose faith in them, nor be swayed by the lure of technological armies. There are many among us today who have been within their ranks, and found the true way of the Great Spirits.”

In the crowd, ‘Cisco turned to French Marc. “He’s right. I was assimilated by the Machine. They purged me, and I found the way.” French Marc nodded in understanding.

A young man named Foye had made his way to the dais. He was not familiar to Redd and Bosh, but they greeted him with honor and friendship on this night. “People of the Great Spirits. People of the Tribes. I am Foye, from the tribe of the Great Wolf. We are a long-suffering people. But I call upon the Wolf to bless us and rend the flesh of our enemies with his teeth. Our winter of loss has been long, but I believe that the rays of the sun will begin to warm us. Most of us have seen enough war now to know what to expect. We also have new men among us that are ready to be strong and determined fighters. In this coming war, we will stalk our enemies quietly, and when they are calm and unprepared, we’ll strike. The People of the Wolf will no longer be content to sulk in the snow.” The followers of the Wolf among the crowd proudly cheered their fellow tribesman.

Foye stepped away from the front of the dais to stand near Bosh and Redd. A young man wearing a fur skin walked slowly to the dais and the crowd grew increasingly silent with anticipation. He took his place at the dais and waited a moment to command even more silence. “People of the Bear!” he shouted. The Bear clan shouted back loudly in greeting. “I am Rudy and I am here by the grace of the Great Bear! The Great Bear will tear our enemies to shreds with his claws! He will crush their bones in his powerful jaws and his sharp teeth will be red with their blood!” The tribesmen of the Bear clan were yelling excited cheers back at the stage in response to every sentence. “We are a young tribe, and we are hungry! We don’t care about the weapons that our enemies bring against us! We are strong! The Bear lives within us, and we’ll roar from his heart!” The Bear’s followers were frenzied, and even a few of the younger warriors of other tribes were getting swept up in it. “Our strength comes from the new blood joining our tribe.” O.J., French Marc, and the Iranian, stood together in the crowd. Their bearskin cloaks were the product of fresh sacrifices. Rudy continued. “Let us go forth and reclaim the land for the Great Bear! Let our enemies tremble before us, despite their unnatural weapons!” The Bear clan was excited above all others. The tribes of the Stag, the Lizard, and the Wolf began to grow annoyed at the excitement of their brothers of nature.

From the stage, Redd kept his thoughts to himself. He scanned the crowd, and exchanged knowing glances with Bogut, with Lue, with Bell and Charlie. They were his brothers in the tribe of the Stag. They kept their cool. They were calm. They were old enough or wise enough to keep to themselves their secret. It had been foretold that the Bear would bleed by the antlers of the Stag.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 13

He was known as the Black Knight. He was something else, though, and you knew it as soon as you saw him. For starters, he never wore armor. He didn’t need it. He was calm, poised, and confident in his manner. His demeanor only changed if those that fought beside him were letting him down, and then he would loudly tell them so. More than anything, it was his eyes that set him apart. He never looked at you without analyzing how you could be destroyed. He saw through your confidence straight to your weakness. He was a natural-born killer. He was the assassin.

In the garden of the grand castle of the Western Banner, the monk trimmed the errant branches from a small tree. He heard the chirping of birds, heard the buzz of insects quickly zipping by, heard the splashing water in the fountain behind him. He felt the sun on his face and on the back of his neck and on the back of his hands. His expression was unreadable. It would appear to an outside observer that the monk was at peace in a peaceful setting. The monk was almost never at peace. That was part of the discipline – fight to achieve the peace that he knew he would never attain. It was perhaps this quality that made the monk similar to the assassin.

The assassin who was often called the Black Knight was practicing his attack. He had mastered the killing blow and still wanted to improve it. He had learned to be quiet and fast but was reaching for silent and instantaneous. He was skilled at the dodge and parry but sought a way to become invisible and intangible. For every move he knew to make, he went through the motion five hundred times so that his muscles and nerves and the bones and the blood could not forget how the move was made. He wanted his body to act without the need for conscious thought because then he could use his brain to create newer and more deadly strikes in the heat of battle.

The monk who was often called the Master walked slowly out of the garden and made his way to the castle courtyard. Before he even saw anything, he sensed that he would not be alone when he got there. He expected many of the young knights to assemble in the courtyard this afternoon, at which time he would help them find the focus and inner resolve that was an essential part of their combat training. It was, though, still morning, and several hours before the knights would assemble. He came around the corner and saw exactly what he projected he would.

He watched the assassin without speaking, his own silence matched by the quiet efficiency with which the killer trained. For not a moment did he believe that the assassin was unaware of his presence, though it was not acknowledged. He watched the exercises and recognized what was being practiced, knew the skills that were being honed. That move was to kill a man from far away. That spin was to confuse an opponent and open his vulnerability. That step was a way to more quickly slip past a defensive parry. The motions were perfect. The monk knew perfection well.

The exercises stopped and the assassin stood still, letting the perspiration on his skin cool him. The monk approached as quietly as possible.

“You continue to impress me. Your dedication to the art of war is unrivaled. It is my hope, friend, that our army does not fall into old habits when fighting eventually breaks out. We both know that fighting will break out again, and soon, I think. You left a path of corpses for them to follow last time, and they helped you go far, even though we fell short in the final days. I will make sure they retain the discipline that they demonstrated in the last campaign, and I will push them over that last hurdle so that we can finally reclaim the Prize. I need you to do only two things: let them know that you trust them to succeed again, and destroy everything that gets in your way.”

The assassin said nothing. He did not move, and kept his eyes closed and his head bowed. The monk was initially surprised and mistook the assassin’s silence as an insult. But then it dawned on the monk what was actually happening. In the courtyard of the castle of the Western Banner, the assassin was silent as a showing of respect to the dead. The dead that he was about to go forth and create.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 12

On the outskirts of the Western Banner was the Barony. The accolades, the victories, the love from the commoners, and, most importantly, the money – nearly all of it went to the Banner, leaving nothing but scraps for the Barony. Most of the time, the Barony took what it could get and complained only in a quiet, obligatory manner. Baron Brand had surrendered his title, though, fleeing the west to join a group of revolutionaries in a distant region, and a new Baron had risen in his place. Baron Boom was not content with being a quiet compliment to the Banner and was already beginning to plot an uprising.

Boom had come from the ranks of the Warriors. He abandoned that guerrilla force to pursue wealth, learning during one of their pillaging runs through the Barony that the wealth of the Banner could be siphoned into this treasury. His initial plan was to join Baron Brand and utilize their combined talents to fleece the Banner, and eventually overthrow it. He schemed in advance to usurp the Barony seat from Brand when the time was most advantageous, only to have Brand abdicate and flee before the first stage could be put into action.

So the Barony was his, which was simply not enough. He wanted the seat of power, which meant he had to reverse the relationship between the Banner and the Barony. Rather than be in the shadow of that gold and purple flag, Boom wanted the kingdom to look up to the red, blue, and white. Then, of course, the rest of the warring nations would fall, one by one, until he ruled supreme.

He was drawing those to the Barony that would fight ruthlessly beside him. He had found a man from the Prison with a chip on his shoulder, and two straight from Hell with their own axes to grind. There were young men and old living in his realm that were ready to fight again, and eager to capture for themselves the pride that had been the domain of the Banner’s knights so often. He had even retained the grizzled old general, in the hopes that the man’s tactics and his own on-the-field leadership could compliment each other. If they couldn’t work together, that could be resolved later. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had to make his own decisions in the midst of war.

The Baron looked out across his land to the trees, and far past the forest he could see the towers with the purple and gold flags flying at their peaks. He imagined the future, in which he was casting those flags into the fire and raising his own. The trees reminded him of his past, and the Warriors, and lurking in shadows or running through nights, fighting for fun. In that moment, he wasn’t sure if the past or the future was more appealing.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 11

Miller drove along the old country road for some time, passing fields of corn for miles. He was concerned for his friend. It had become increasingly difficult to make contact and, when his friend bothered to answer the phone, the conversations were brief and dismissive. Miller knew it wasn’t a personal thing. His friend carried a lot on his shoulders, and it had been many years since he had received anything resembling commendation for doing so. Miller felt in some way slightly responsible for that, but his window of opportunity to do anything about that had passed. Like his friend, Miller’s age had taken him off the battlefield.

Eventually, he saw the small old-fashioned diner along the side of the road. He slowed the car and turned into the loose-gravel parking lot. Miller parked beside the car that he recognized as belonging to his friend and stepped out of his own vehicle. The day was clear and sunny, and the sunlight reflected brightly off of the chrome and glass surfaces of the diner’s exterior, causing Miller to squint and shield his eyes with his hand. He walked toward the door of the restaurant and went inside.

Sitting alone in a booth at the far end of the diner, back turned to the door, was Miller’s friend: the Legend. He had been larger than life as an infantry man, leading on the field like no other. Now he just looked large, thought Miller, laughing to himself. He walked over and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder for a moment. “Glad I finally caught up to you.” He sat down in the booth across from his friend.

The Legend looked at Miller with mild irritation, and let it pass. He looked back down into the cup of coffee that rested on the table in front of him. Silence passed between the men for several moments, one staring steadfastly into his coffee and the other staring at his friend. Miller finally broke the routine by turning his head to the right to gaze out the window at the road. “You shouldn’t put so much of this on yourself.”

“It’s not that so much anymore.” The Legend continued looking into his mug and stirred the coffee with a spoon. “It used to be that. I used to feel that. I felt it a lot when I was a fighter. When I was on the field, I felt like it was up to me. I had plenty of help, but I knew it was up to me to get ‘em all into gear. When I was a general, I felt it. If I couldn’t teach the men how to win, I was failing at my job. But I’m not in the trenches anymore. I don’t fight the battles. I’m a politician. I don’t feel like it’s my fault anymore if they don’t know how to fight. I feel like it’s theirs.”

“Well, something’s got to you. It’s all over your face. You aren’t talking to anyone. People don’t know what you’re doing. It’s concerning.”

“You want the truth? I’m starting to think that maybe I just don’t care anymore. They don’t care. They go out and half-ass it and grumble under their breath and just get beat. They don’t care. And if they don’t, why should I?”

Miller sighed. The waitress approached and asked if he wanted anything. “I’ll take a glass of milk and a cup of coffee. Mmmmmaaand a slice of the sweet potato pie.” The waitress scribbled and left. “No. You care. If you didn’t, you’d just walk away. There’s some part of you that still thinks you can make a difference in some way.”

“In war, in any contest, there’s only one winner. Everyone else loses. There’s no real difference between losing first and losing last.”

Miller sighed. “Look…I wish things had gone differently when I was still in uniform. We just couldn’t get over the hump. I take a lot of the blame for that. I’m gone, Jermaine left without becoming the leader you needed in my absence, and you’re stuck. I get it. But you’ve got young guys who believe in you and believe in the war. Guys who have seen a few tours of duty and know what they’re doing. Don’t give up on them.”

The Legend looked at Miller and shook his head. He threw a few dollars onto the table as he stood up and then pulled his keys from his pocket. He said nothing.

“What are you doing?” Miller asked his friend.

“I have to prepare an army” he said. But in his head, the sentence was “I have to prepare an army to die.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 10

Yao watched explosions flash across the sky and was pleased. The noise, the fire, the lights – they were the product of war. War made him feel good. In his heart was a love of battle, and a need to win. He had been groomed from early childhood to lead a nation to victory and he knew that if victory was not achieved during his life, his ghost would never rest.

The giant airship within which he stood watching was tens of thousands of feet in the air, testing weaponry of the latest design. Yao was certain that some of his enemies must be watching from afar, and he hoped that they saw the explosions and imagined dying within them.

Silently, Battier stepped from somewhere behind and moved to stand beside Yao. He, too, looked out at the explosions and a smile spread across his face. “The new weapons are testing well. Our success is virtually assured.”

“I’m not as certain” said Yao. “The new weapons could be highly effective. Yet victory could elude us if they are used without skill.” As if on cue, Commander McGrady entered the observation deck through a hatch at the aft end of the room. He was followed by another man wearing the insignia of a Major whose eyes scanned the room from left to right repeatedly. Yao recognized this man. He gave a quick bow to greet them. “Commander. Major Artest, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yao, Major Artest has joined our ranks. I am showing him around our airship and introducing him to his new comrades. The Major is a true warrior and will be a strong asset to our forces.”

“Commander, I wish I shared your optimism. I have no qualm with giving a man a chance to prove himself, but I must say that your reputation precedes you, Major. You are known as a malcontent and –“

“Enough, Yao!” Commander McGrady interrupted loudly. “The Major has proven himself capable of far more than making trouble for his associates! I insist that you show him the utmost respect!”

“It’s quite alright, Commander” said Major Artest. “Yao has the heart of a champion and does not want to subject his organization to negative influences.” Yao tilted his head in polite acknowledgement. “However, I’d like to assure you that I’m here to help, and help in a big way. As a tribute, I’ve written a short verse that I’d like to recite.”

“Major Artest will aid your offenses

and shore up the strength of defenses.

I will assault all of the enemies’ senses

And steal off in the night with their wenches!”

The Commander smiled appreciatively at the Major and gave Yao an inquisitive look. Yao smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Major. That was…enlightening. I’ll be happy to assist you in any way as you acclimate yourself to our organization.”

“The Major and I will continue our tour of this vessel. I have much to show him still.” The Commander walked quickly to the forward hatch with the Major following, and they exited the room. Battier and Yao both watched them leave and continued to gaze at the hatch after they had gone through it.

“He seems a bit of a fool” Battier said.

“Yes. And not to be trusted. Not yet. Find Rafer and Bones. They should keep a close eye on him. They’ll report to you. You report to me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know that he’ll really be with us, but even more, I want to know how much trust the Commander puts in him. The Commander's judgment is lacking. We need strong leadership even if we don’t have a strong leader.”

“What of the Emperor?”

“He will make his own judgment. And I trust that in his wisdom he will see things as I do.”

The explosions continued to dance in the sky, and Yao watched, still pleased.