Prologue: Victory
“Left, left!” Fox shouted as a pair of burly seniors in crimson jerseys charged down near the center of the court, passing by the first wall without even a pause. Fox pointed, and the lone remaining defender on his team reacted, shifting over to stand between the two attackers and the goal. The two seniors, wearing numbers 16 and 20, quickly passed the ball back and forth like a rotten orange, neither wanting to hold it too long. The darkness of the court seemed to match the situation.
Three minutes left
Fox and Andy were sprinting back to aid Mike, who was doing a solid job of stalling the assault, but the result would be close to inevitable if sustained without help. Fox considered stopping and providing some cover fire for Mike from midcourt when he saw just a tiny blur of movement at the edge of his field of vision. Head darting for just a split-second, he saw number 7, Detroit Central’s team Captain, sneaking down the far right side of the court, almost pressed against the glass separating the players and the spectators. Number 7 must have noticed that his cover was blown because he immediately burst into a full sprint, taking a few more steps along the wall before cutting straight for the goal.
Fox churned his legs as hard as he could considering he’d been on the court for over 40 minutes, but he was still a few steps behind his target. Fox focused and ran just a fraction harder but his focus was distracted by a flash of light to his right; one of the seniors had shot something at Mike. He took the hit and was sent sailing back a few feet, but no tombstone meant he wasn’t out quite yet; if anything, he was now closer to the object he was defending. Just more sluggish.
Mike got back up to a knee, just in time to stare down a burning orange ball the size of a frying pan being held by number 20. He coiled back, readying the coup-de-grace, but the fireball went wildly off-course, flying toward the scoreboard instead as its creator tumbled forward; Andy had drilled number 20 with a blast of his own from near midcourt, over a hundred feet behind. A massive blue beam, commonly called “The Tombstone” came down over number 20, and the court below him quickly spun, taking him to the floor below and removing him from play. Number 16 looked stunned for a moment, pausing in his tracks. This, in turn, froze Mike, either surprised by the result on contemplating his next action.
Two twenty.
16 knew exactly what to do next though, and breaking his façade of confusion, lobbed a pass about fifteen feet in the air toward the right side of the goal, where number 7 would be waiting to drop it down and score.
A dozen feet from the goal, the ball was on its downward arc, and just a second later landed straight into 7’s hands. He effortlessly made the catch and dropped the ball onto the goal, where it sat almost supernaturally still.
The lights flashed completely off for just a moment, then flashed back on. “Three!” played through the speakers in the entire arena as well as the central scoreboard. Fox jumped to a quick stop, still about ten feet from his adversary, and knowing that, unless the ball was sent off the goal in the next few seconds, Detroit would score and win the National Championship. 7 quickly turned and created a blue, translucent, transparent wall, close to the same size as the goal; about three feet wide and three feet tall, covering from his kneecaps to almost the tip of his head, looking like some kind of futuristic Hoplite, minus the Greek spear. Most importantly, though, the shield covered most of the center of the goal, and therefore Fox’s easiest shot.
Fox jab-stepped to his right coinciding with a short, fake throwing motion from his right hand, then quickly took one long step left and forward. The lights went off again for just a moment, “Two!” shouted through the speakers this time. Fox dropped down and slammed his left fist straight into the court. Suddenly a series of jagged blue shards flew from the point of contact and shot straight down toward the goal. About two feet high and angled like inverse shark fins, the spikes would sent most players sprawling, if not knocking them out completely.
Number 7 started adjusting his shield almost as soon as he saw Fox dropping down, not convinced by his fake, and shifted his shield further to his right to take away any angle Fox might have created. He then dropped the shield down to touch the ground and braced for impact.
The shards crashed into the shield like waves into a jetty, sending remnants in all different directions. And while 7 looked exhausted from his exertion, the shield withstood the blast. Realizing this, the Captain smiled at Fox.
Fox smiled back only a moment before the lights flashed off again, as a single, spherical point of light cut through the darkness. Number 7 turned his head just-in-time to see the fireball Andy launched from 7’s left graze the shield and strike the ball, sending it flying into the back wall. And even through the nearly-soundproof glass surrounding them, every player could hear the crowd roar at the result. Number 7, slightly panicked, turned to chase the ball down and salvage the situation. He took only a few steps before, like the ball a moment earlier, he took a fireball to the back and similarly crashed into the wall. Fox sprinted to the wall, legs aching and sore like he’d never felt, but pure adrenaline pushed him forward. He scooped up the prize and threw it up court to Andy. Fox, panting, dared to look up at the scoreboard.