A/N: I do not own the DC Universe or any of its characters. This story is for pure fun and enjoyment of any readers it may have.

Just think Dark Knight Trilogy/Marvel Universe/Real-People-Instead-Of-Cartoons when reading. It's intended to take place right outside your window, rather than in the care-free world of cartoons.

Please be advised this story can be dark and above all, strives to be realistic.

Lastly, I hope you enjoy it!


Vendetta: Chapter 3

The Apprentice

Night had fallen over Jump City, and Gerald Fox had yet to finish his tormenting. He continued to string Grayson along his own self-created agenda. Offering tidbits of information here and there. Grayson had started hoping that a conclusion was near. That way he could find a place to spend the night and process what new information he had acquired, but that was before Fox revealed the secret elevator.

Said secret stayed hidden behind one of the bookcases within Fox's office. It proved Grayson's earlier hypothesis to be true. Gerald Fox is not so much of a reader that he needed multiple bookcases in his office. They served as an illusion. A means of keeping things hidden. Who knew what else could be discovered if one poked around the CEO's office.

Pondering on such, Grayson allows himself to be led into the cramped elevator. Once both inside, they stood shoulder to shoulder. The elevator maybe had room for one more person. That was it. Notably, it also had doors on two sides.

"It's a bit of a squeeze, I know." Fox twists his head to elicit a crack from his neck. "But it's not exactly meant for everyone. This elevator only lets in or out on six floors." He presses the button labeled 'PH Main'. Grayson made note that there was a 'PH Upper' button above it.

Grayson frowns. "Why's that?"

"Call it privacy." The elevator doors close behind them, and they start to ascend. "And efficiency."

Their ride proves short. Less than thirty seconds before the steel doors in front of them slide apart to reveal what Grayson would describe as one of the nicest penthouses he had ever seen. It rivaled those of Bruce Wayne and his friends. Grayson found himself blinking profusely at the sight before him.

If today could get any more difficult… it just did, he thought to himself.

The CEO takes two steps out of the elevator and stops. "Well, what do you think?" he asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Before them, a plush U-shaped red couch devoured the spacious room's center. It faced a monstrous television that looked as if it could retract into the ceiling. Better yet, the trend of floor to ceiling windows maintained behind the screen, ensuring the penthouse had the same spectacular view as other floors of the building did. Especially if the television could retract as Grayson suspected.

"It's … incredible," Grayson mutters.

In his head, he found himself doubting his eyes. Does this building ever end? He shakes his head.

"Thought you might say that," Fox says, nodding to himself. "There's one other thing I didn't mention and probably should before I leave you to explore and think things over." Grayson turns to face the CEO, a twinge of discomfort rattling its way along his spine. Here comes the catch. "The crime in Cali is extreme as of late. Meta-humans are getting more common by the day and—"

"—Meta-humans like you?" Grayson jumps ahead of him. He had a hunch. Never acting on such made for one lousy detective.

The accusation got Fox to freeze.

Then he let loose a hearty laugh and waved him off. "Good one! No, no I just get to play with some gadgets and gizmos we make from time to time. No super strength or speed here. Just practice." He pats Grayson on the shoulder. "Way to make a guy feel good though…" Gerald looks off into space, then gathers himself. "Look, what we really want you to do is assemble a team to fight crime here on the coast. A team of people with talents and abilities, like yourself."

Grayson opens his mouth, but footsteps sound to his right before he can enunciate, so he spins in time to watch the woman's entrance from one of the room's many branching hallways. She paid the two men no mind and made her way into the kitchen, which separated itself from the living room with an island countertop. Barefoot, gray sweatpants, and a black tank top. Her attire resonated with Grayson as an important fact. She lived here.

And they want me to do the same?

Grayson pivots back to Fox. Thoughts batting back and forth in his head like a game of tennis. "Okay, look. I came here for Zucco. Not to play Boy Wonder, the city hero."

"Would you just humor me by looking over some dossiers on people we think you might find interesting?"

Grayson grits his teeth, frustration cooking through his body. He shakes his head, "Like I said originally, I'm really not interested. So, if you could just hand over what you have on Zucco, I can stop wasting your time and be on my way." Bruce would answer for this goose chase. He'd make sure of that.

"You're stubborn," Fox grunts, then bobs his head in the direction of the woman, as if he knows something Grayson does not. "Just watch for a second, would you?"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, then folding his arms, Grayson follows Gerald's line of sight. The brunette close to his age had just poured herself a cup of coffee. Somehow she hadn't noticed or heard them yet. Wait, cold coffee?

Just as he began to really wonder, he witnesses a flash of green light. Said light had emitted directly from her hand, like a flare, brief and sudden. What's more is that her coffee was now steaming.

Grayson whips back to Gerald, "How the hell did she do that?"

Grayson's raised voice alarms the woman. She lets out a shriek, dropping the mug to the floor with a crash, then frees a wireless headphone from her ear, and covers her mouth with one hand. Looking down at what must be the shattered mug first, her eyes eventually drift up and over to them. They were the widest he had ever seen. And a deep, brilliant brown.

She was never ignoring us… she never knew we were standing here. The headphones sure didn't help. Grayson found himself astonished.

Grayson turns back to Fox to find him smirking. Then the host says, "Like I said, humor me and read the dossiers. You might just find them interesting." Fox shifts his gaze to the woman, who stood petrified like a statue. An athletic, tan-skinned statue. "Miss Anders, this is Bruce Wayne's ward Dick Grayson. He's going to stay as a guest here tonight. Mind showing him to one of the spare bedrooms?"

Her vision darts down to her feet, then back to Fox. Her mouth forms the words as she swipes a few strands of hair free from her heart-shaped face. Then she seemingly realizes the words weren't coming out. Flustered, she nods, "Um, yes! I can definitely, uh, do so!" Her eyes fly back to the floor. "I should just... clean this up first. If that's okay?"

Grayson could think of one hundred things to voice in that moment. Most of it was not polite in the slightest. Instead, he begrudgingly accepted that a decision had already been made for him. Whether he liked it or not.

"Of course," Fox replies, his pleased expression befalling Grayson. "Well then, that settles it."

Grayson could only manage a sigh in response.


The Foreigner

Why did she always end up being such a klutz? Her boss shows up in the living room with the person she had been waiting for, and she makes his acquaintance by killing an innocent mug of coffee. "Kori, it's time. It's time to do what we brought you here to do," Fox's words from earlier reverberated within her head as she bent over to go about picking up pieces of the coffee mug. Thankfully hardwood flooring meant no stains. That would have annihilated her OCD for cleanliness.

"Did you have any bags," she hears her boss ask their visitor.

"Yeah. Just one bag down on my bike."

"Good to know. I'll have it sent up."

One bag? She couldn't believe it. This guy traveled cross-country with one bag to come live over here? She would have had at least three or four. Just how laissez-faire could a guy be? Or did he just live like some sort of pig and wear the same clothes every day? She struggled to believe that too, considering Bruce Wayne lived in a mansion. Though, a pig living in a mansion could be possible. Just like how a hostel in Tel Aviv could be kept clean despite the constant traffic. She would know.

"That being said, I'll leave you two to it." While behind the kitchen island, she could not see Fox, but she could hear him stepping back into the elevator. "I'll expect an answer in the morning, Mr. Grayson. Oh, and Kori?"

She nearly squeaks in surprise as she stands. "Yes, Sir?" Sure enough Fox is in the elevator, poking his head out and looking at her. Grayson stood in front of the elevator yet, with his hands in his pockets, doing the same as her boss. Staring at her.

"Have a good night, that's all." Gerald Fox flashes that pearly-white smile of his, then disappears inside the elevator. "You as well, Mr. Grayson. Goodnight." With a ding, the elevator doors seal shut and she's left alone with him. The same him that would lead them.

Dick Grayson.

He looked more vagabond then vigilante. Dark stubble resting along his strong, yet angular jaw, his dark hair pushed back, but some bangs falling forward and most rogue of his appearance, that patchy leather jacket that had seen better days. He did not strike her as professional as a billionaire's adopted son might be. Nor did he look enthused. He looked worn out, hollow, and bitter. More like someone who didn't want to be here.

Should be fun, she thinks mentally.

She starts to fumble with her hands under his gaze. "Um yeah, so uh, hi," she greets, granting a small wave. His keen hazel eyes seemed to criticize her. "I'll just… um, finish cleaning this up and then I can show you around. That sound good?"

In a swift motion, he bites his lower lip and nods, his feet already carrying him farther into the living room, hands still in his pockets. "Yeah, that sounds good." Suddenly, she apparently didn't matter anymore. The man was lost to his thoughts, but had enough sense to conclude with, "Thanks."

She was just relieved he didn't comment on her accident, which she crouches to return to. In less than a minute, fragments of the mug are disposed of in a nearby trash bin, and the semi-warm coffee is wiped away from grey-stained hardwood. When finished, she rises to find him standing in front of the floor to ceiling window, staring into the distance like someone from a cheesy drama film. Perhaps he had acted before and knew how to brood so well in real-life? It was certainly possible given his background as Wayne's ward. While amusing herself with such thoughts, his eyes sought her out again. They were feverish. Adamant and urgent.

"So as I'm sure you already know, I'm Dick. Dick Grayson," he says, putting a hand to his chest. He follows up by gesturing toward her, "And you're Kori? Kori...?" Slowly, he initiates a saunter in her direction alongside the window, hands returning to his jean pockets.

"My name's Kori Anders. I work here for Titan Industries as an Assistant to the Communications Director." She pauses, but his movement continues. "Sorry, I was only half-informed of your… arrival. Some of the details were left out." She turns her head to the side, watching him from the corner of her eye with uncertainty. "My boss is rather good at that."

"Good at half-informing? Yeah," he chuckles, stopping to face the window again once more. He seems to be drinking in the view as he says, "Then you and I have something in common."

"I take it Mr. Wayne is just as bad?"

"He's not my boss, but oh yeah," he leans back on his heels, "He's absolutely miserable at giving the whole story." He nods to himself and looks back at her. "That's how I ended up here. You know, confused and lost."

She smiles for a moment before responding. "Confused and lost. I can relate to that."

Finally, he smiles. And embrace Tameran is he handsome when he does so.

"Least I'm not completely alone then," he remarks, going around the couch and sauntering closer to her. He stops in front of the shiny, silver refrigerator, less than three feet from her. "So, I guess you're supposed to show me around." He does a rotation with his head, a half-smile plastered to his face.

"Right! So uh, this is the living room," she gestures to the large room opposite of the island countertop. Really the red U-shaped sofa, jaw-dropping view, and retractable television were its main features of note. Other than that, it had 5 different entrances, and only one of them was an elevator. "And somewhat obviously, we're standing in what qualifies as the kitchen." She spins, sweeping a hand across the cabinets and counter to her right. Along its length, one could find a sink, microwave, dishwasher, Keurig, and an excessive amount of counter space. Plenty of room for multiple people to prepare meals at once.

"I've noticed. Nice and modern. Am I going to be this impressed the whole way through?" He juts a thumber over his shoulder, "That view in particular up here is to die for."

A half laugh escapes her lips. "Uh, yeah, probably. Guess it depends what you're used to?"

"As of late, a small apartment," he huffs.

"Gotcha." Did he not live with the billionaire anymore? Why would one not? How could one not?

"Alright, so, we should continue. Yes?"

"Please. Lead on with the charge."

"Okay! Right this way." She brushes past him to the nearest hallway, just beyond the refrigerator; catching a faint whiff of his cologne. He had good taste. It smelled of oceans and faraway places. There was a bit of a gasoline smell too. Riding a motorcycle did probably tend to do that, she supposed. She wouldn't know.

Together, they dip into the pristine hallway which took a sharp 90 degree angle to the right. Ahead of them it stretched on, plain and immaculate. "The whole place is sort of a square with the living room and training room as its largest rooms," she explains, glancing over her shoulder at him. His eyes were staying level, his hands in his pockets again. "So remember that and you should be able to find your way out if you ever get lost."

"Good to know."

They continue down the hallway passing a door to their left. "That's one of six bedrooms in this place," she explains, "We've got you set up towards the back in one of the larger ones."

"Oh, so you were in on that detail?"

"Which detail?

"You knew I was coming here? Knew I'd be spending the night up here?" His tone had sharpened.

She slows when the hallway cuts into a rather gloomy room and can't help but feel accused. She stops and turns to him. "Is that a bad thing?" She tightens her brow and inclines her head a bit, but he waves her off in seconds, before she can draw any conclusions.

"Nevermind. Forget I said anything." His demeanor sinks into one of impalpable angst. Almost as if a personal storm cloud were over his head now.

Irritable blorthog. He didn't even give me a chance to figure out where he was coming from with that.

She shakes her head and leads him into the penthouse's library on the building's western side. It would be right above Fox's office and shared similarities in décor, minus the desk, bar, and pool table. Instead, it contained a wooden table that rested in the room's center, some seating, and a corridor of bookcases watching from the walls as if they were members of an audience. If only it had some windows.

"This is the library. It might be my favorite room in the whole place," she states, walking in and putting her hands on her hips. She adored its privacy and comfy yellow armchairs in the corners.

"Really?" He paces into the room, lazily making his way around the opposite side of the central table. "Shouldn't you be more interested in going to the mall like most girls our age?"

"That's presumptuous and possibly even... something one would say when think lesser of the opposite gender!" She couldn't recall the word for it. She'd have to look it up again. She just remembered she didn't like that particular Earth term. "I'll have you know I love reading!"

"So you're telling me you're a big reader?"

"Yes, I am a worm of the books and proud of it."

He swerves toward her and narrows his eyes. "Did you mean you're a bookworm?"

"I said what I said, now come on," she makes for the exit, the only other hallway that wasn't the same way they had come from. "Let's keep going, there's more to see." Not to mention she wanted to get it over with. If she took too long he'd realize how awkward, weird, and clumsy she was. Then he'd for sure never go along with Fox's plan. Thankfully, he follows out of the library without protest.

In the back hallway, they passed a weight room, bathroom, closet, and finally came to a stop at the last door on the left. If they were to keep trekking, they'd make another ninety degree turn to the right, where they'd find the training room. "Here it is," she announces, then palms the panel button by the door. The metal door slid aside just in time for him to walk right past her.

He whistles and spins about, studying the room. "Cozy."

The spacious bedroom had a very modern feel to it. A queen-sized bed ate up a third of its center, the walls were slate grey, and there were two small windows on either side of the bed. Each window directly above the pair of black nightstands adjacent to the bed on either side. To the right of the bedroom door, a black dresser and small desk filled the corner. To the left of the doorway, a large closet filled with empty hangers. Nothing in the room looked to have ever been used.

She leans against the doorway, crossing her legs and arms. "Yeah," she sighs, eyes wandering the room, "it would have been my second choice."

He chuffs, "Got a choice did you? That's cute."

Her cheeks flush at that. Her annoyance with him beginning to build, she grips her biceps and squeezes. "You're…" she struggles for the words, then found them moments later, "Kind of rude. You know that?"

"So I've heard." His lack of empathy sparks her annoyance further. Pushing it to the precipice. "Look," he continues, scratching the back of his head and looking around. "I'm actually kind of beat. My adoptive father just lied to me so I would journey across the country to get tricked into one of his nefarious schemes." He throws an arm out to his side, gesturing to the room. "Thanks for preparing this for me and showing me around, but I'm only spending one night here and that's it. I'm not playing along just because some rich guys in suits are pulling strings." He ran a hand through his hair, "So if I'm coming off as a little rude, maybe it's a bit warranted."

"Maybe. Just how much did they tell you?"

"Nothing other than the lead I was given back in Gotham. The rest I've been learning as I go."

Basically nothing at all. They kept him in the dark. "I see." She swallows, her eyes flicking to the manila files on the desk in the corner. The same ones she had put together and placed there for him. "Well, whatever you decide to do, just know that those dossiers my boss mentioned are on the desk there."

"Thanks."

"You are welcome." She unfolds her legs and arms. "Shall we continue with the tour?" She swipes a strand of hair behind her ear. "Or...?"

"I actually think I'm going to call it a night and try to get some shut eye. If you don't mind?"

"No, I mean yes, that does make many of the sense." Stop sounding like an idiot, Kori! "We can um, finish the tour in the morning if you like?"

"Uh, yeah. Maybe. Like I said, one night here is all I'm really planning for right now. So unless that changes... you know?"

"Understood. Well, for what it's valued..." That felt wrong to her. So much so that she pauses to concentrate on what she meant to say.

He frowns. It confirms her suspicions. "Did you mean for what it's worth?" he asks.

She points at him, "Yeah, that one!" She pulls the arm back to her side and starts rubbing her shoulder. "Anyways, have a goodnight and I'll um, maybe see you in the morning."

He sighs, "Yeah. That sounds good. You have a goodnight, Kori."

Leaving him there like some sort of lost puppy, she backs out of the room and starts off down the hallway at a brisk pace. Why am I always so awkward?! Well, being raised on a different planet than Earth probably didn't help. Her mind blasted off like a rocket into outer space. The thoughts bouncing inside her skull with each step. She could not place how she felt about Dick Grayson or anything that happened this evening.

Fox had told her what they intended the end goal to be. It had excited her. To do some good in the world. To help others. To be recognized as someone other than a lost soul. Yet now that she had met their leader, she could not help but feel he may not be the one.

He seemed far too impulsive and short-tempered to lead others. This initial meeting made Fox's praises for the man seemingly ill-advised. Dick Grayson only appeared capable of operating solo. Not with a team.

By the time Kori reached her room, on the eastern wing, directly across the building from Grayson's; she could only wonder if she had made the right decision in letting Fox convince her to come here.


The Apprentice

A penthouse, a beautiful woman, and a suit trying to decide his future. Grayson had been here before and rejected it all. Thinking this scenario would play out any differently seemed impossible.

Abruptly, his cell phone vibrates in his pocket. A text message?

He yanks the electronic free and stares down at it. The message read: Your bag is coming up on the elevator. Oh, and save this number. -G.F.

With a groan he steps out of the bedroom and retraces the short tour back to the living room. Just as he enters, the elevator chimes and opens to reveal his bloated, brown duffel bag. He retrieves it, glances out the window at the mesmerizing view of San Francisco's night lights, twinkling like fireflies, then quickly retreats to his bedroom. Exhaustion washes over him. It was only nearing 8pm, but his body still knew it as 11pm back in Gotham.

When back in his room he tosses his bag onto the bed and approaches the file-covered desk. He'd sleep only after he got a look at these so-called dossiers.

Like one would rip a page from a notebook, he flings the first file open and stares. In bold lettering across the first document, it read: Starfire "Kori Anders". A few introductory lines of text later, it contained a photograph of the person he had just met. Only in the photograph she looked very different.

Her brunette, shoulder-length hair replaced by a ravishing red that spilled over her shoulders. What's more is those warm, friendly brown eyes of hers were changed to emerald in the photo. She looked, extraterrestrial.

His eyes survey the rest of the document. It's a background check. A very invasive one. He flips the page over to find paragraphs of more text outlining the abilities and powers of the meta-human known as Starfire. He flips to the last page of the file and discovers the following written in pen: Kori put the rest together. I put this one together for you on her. -G.F.

"I'm going to hate seeing those initials," he says out loud, then takes a step back to rub his chin. He lets loose a monstrous sigh and shakes his head. "Way to go, Dick. Just what the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?"


The Jock

The PA blared, the crowd roared, and shoes squeaked against the hardwood. All of it followed by the world's most satisfying sound. Swish. The ball went through the net and the masses cheered.

That's what made basketball beautiful to him. Its simplicity.

Body shuffling to give one special individual the chance to replicate that satisfying sound. The game had its components though. Physicality, passion, momentum, teamwork, and most importantly, strategy. Every good game required strategy. Whether it involved athleticism or not. Above all else, a good game should bring out the emotion in people. It did that for Victor Stone.

"JOHNSON WITH THE THREE," the PA announcer Bruce Baxterson, screams. "THAT TIES THE GAME 89 TO 89 WITH LESS THAN 2 MINUTES TO GO FOLKS!"

The situation dictated the strategy and controlled the emotion. It also shaped the game's critical moments. Victor and his team, the Jump City Knights, found themselves in one of those crucial moments right now.

"CORTER WILL BRING THE BALL UPCOURT AND..."

Baxterson is interrupted when a whistle from one of the referees sounds. The Zebra-men, Vic liked calling them. Someone had called a timeout, and Vic knew who.

"COACH BOWSER IS GOING TO USE A TIMEOUT! UNDERSTANDABLE GIVEN THE PREVIOUS THREE MINUTES OF THIS ONE!"

With the other four young men on the floor, Vic jogs off court to the home team's bench. There, decked out in black suit and tie, stood one of the few men Vic ever listened to. Coach Dick Bowser, a heavy-set man of 58 who had started balding one month after Vic joined the team. The joke between them is that Vic caused such. Vic would always tell him 'there's no proof', then proceed to continue cracking jokes during practice.

"Alright young bucks, bring it in, bring it in," Coach Bowser grunts, waving the players toward him. The reserve guys stayed on the bench. They knew and understood the type of game this had become. Their minutes were up and they had done their part by keeping the team in the game when the starters needed rest. Vic respected them. Especially the handful of juniors and seniors that accepted their role on the team. While young, Vic was just too dominant to not be a member of the Knights starting five. And Vic made sure others knew it.

"Men we've got them right where we want them," Bowser says, as the five players form a circle around him. Vic was tallest by at least four inches, and often found himself leaning forward in the huddle, like he was doing now. "This team wants to push us. They want to push us out of position and into stupid mistakes. They want blown coverage, poor defense, and guys out of position so they can score. And guys you know what?" Bowser surveys the group with raised brows. "They've been doing it. They've out shot us from the arc. They're 12 for 15 on 3s today!" Bowser shakes his head, "Yeah guards, we're going to have a chat after this one. But right now, we gotta focus on what comes next. Shutdown basketball, men."

"Hey Coach, you got thirty," one of the referees shouts from behind Vic.

Bowser backs out of the huddle like a flustered ostrich lifting its head from the dirt. "What! It hasn't been—bah, whatever!" He returns to the huddle ravenous. "Shutdown basketball. Press every step of the way, man to man except you, Stone." The two make eye contact. "You're under the hoop on defense, offense, and you're rebounding like never before. Forget their 5, he's taken 2 shots all day. He'll continue setting screens. You focus on those boards, got it?"

Vic nods his bald head, "Yes sir, you know I"m the next Shaq. We'll be good."

That gets his teammates to chuckle and Bowser to smile. "Yeah well you shoot him like too, just remember that, big guy. No jumper. You take a shot, you do it within a foot of that hoop."

All jokes aside, Vic nods. "Yes sir." He knew better than to jeopardize his team by taking a shot he was still working to develop. Once he had a consistent jumper down, he'd be a major threat. The collegiate sporting world knew it too.

Bowser sniffs, then looks up at the scoreboard. Ten seconds remaining on the timeout.

"All right, men. In all seriousness now. Suffocating defense. They do not shoot another 3 this game. Got it?"

He's answered by a symphony featuring: "yes sir", "you got it," and "will do". Every player had a demeanor and a way to show it. What mattered most in basketball, is whether or not the coach could blend these demeanors together to make them effective on a court. With a winning record his past three seasons, Coach Bowser is considered pretty efficient at such a task. Few players questioned his authority and expertise. Thus, they made a formidable team.

"Okay, then lock and load young bucks," Bowser says, raising a fist in the center of the huddle. Four fists match his height, then Vic plops his monstrous hand on top of rest. "Knights on three … one, two, three!"

"KNIGHTS!"

With that, the group disperses and the players jog back onto the court where the opposition waits. A predominantly Caucasian team from the east coast, the Bludhaven Bears, dressed in powder blue uniforms with orange trims. Their uniforms were a true eye sore, especially compared to the Knights silver and red.

The players from both teams took their places on the hardwood, sizing each other up. The battle had been long, but now it came to a close. Vic loved this part. When all the fire of competition came out. You could see it in another man's eyes. The resolve to win, no matter the cost.

On the far corner of the court, a referee moves to stand behind the other team's point guard, who hops up and down anxiously. A referee at center court raises an arm, then slices it down while blowing his whistle.

Game on.

Vic keeps his arms out wide and shuffles, as the Bludhaven Bears attack his side of the court. His teammates follow Bowser's direction well. When the opposition passes the ball right, a red-silver jersey rotates right. When the ball came to the corner, a red-silver jersey prevented the ball from moving again. The action grew stale and the shot clock waned. In the next several seconds, Vic knew the Bears would have to make their play, so he braced himself. His muscles coiled and he made sure to take up more space in the paint. He put his arm along the side of the nearest player in blue, and made sure his space was secure.

Suddenly, his adversaries made their move by breaking free of the defense. Only for a moment, but a moment is deadly. With poise, one of the taller players on offense dribbles forward two steps, and stops. He rises into his shot and lets the ball fly uncontested. Then it hits the back of the rim, and falls to Vic's right. Keeping his back sturdy, thighs engaged, he holds off the other man and lunges for the ball. There's no resistance as he snatches it from the air and keeps possession, pivoting like an angry bull. The smaller center for the Bludhaven Bears backs off, retreating down court.

Vic takes two dribbles before passing to a teammate. Said teammate grabs the ball and flies down court, while Vic does not move. He watches from afar, obeying Coach Bowsers instructions. Being part of a team meant knowing when to act; but it also meant you knew when to obey.

To his dismay, obeying did not pay off this time. His team failed to score despite getting two good looks. Now the Bludhaven Bears returned to his side, with what could be the game's final possession.

"Here it comes, get ready to lose," the team's center chuffs, running up next to him. He looked like an acne-covered telephone pole, wearing sneakers and blue.

"Not if I have anything to say about yo," Vic says, boxing the smaller man out with ease. He was far stronger and they both knew it. The mismatch is obvious to everyone watching. Vic felt the advantage he had down to his very bones.

A similar pattern from before started for the Bears, but this time they were faster. The ball passing left around the arc, then right again. They were looking for their opportunity to take another 3-point shot, but Vic's team held them at bay. Again, the shot clock started to work against the offense and they grew aggressive.

Vic recognized the play developing before it could happen.

The Bears' center ran away from Vic and stopped abruptly, planting his feet. As a result, Vic's teammate crashes into him, his movement stalled as the opposing Bear with the basketball swerves around the collision. The speedster ran straight at Vic and the hoop, determination in his eyes. In response, Vic widens his stance and grew tall as a mountain, his monstrous arms raised above his head. The smaller Bear weaves toward him like the snake, trying to fake him out, then jumps into the air for the layup. Vic does not fall for the deceit and leaps to meet him.

Slap. The ball rams straight into his hands midair.

"BLOCK! OH MY GOODNESS, STONE BLOCKS THE BALL AT THE RIM!"

With a roar, Vic hauls the ball down with him into possession. Again, he stomps and whirls to keep it away from prying enemy hands, then throws ahead to one of his teammates. This time he does not follow Coach Bowser's instructions though, and chases after the crowd of jerseys crossing half court.

"8 SECONDS REMAINING IN THE GAME AS THE KNIGHTS TAKE IT DOWN COURT!"

Vic pumps his arm to speed up, everyone taking up positions ahead of him. Their defense was set up based on what he was doing before. Two of their players guarding Jack Corter, the Knights' best scorer. They weren't expecting Vic to suddenly join the offense and require guarding. That's why no one stopped this charge. Instead, he blasts past the arc in a straight line to the rim, adrenaline feeling if it could pop one of his veins.

"4 SECONDS LEFT, CORTER LOOKING FOR AN OPENING!"

Corter saw Vic just in time and thrusts the ball past a defender's arms, straight to Vic. Vic catches it, take one more step, and then jumps up to thrash the ball through the hoop with two hands as the clock expires.

"MY GOODNESS! CORTER PASSES TO STONE ON THE INSIDE WHO SLAMS IT HOME AND THAT'S IT FOLKS! KNIGHTS WIN 91-89! WOW! THE BIG MAN WITH THE GAME WINNER!"

Vic finds the nearest camera man and starts flexing. He howls his triumph to the heavens as the crowd erupts around the arena in cheers of celebration. From all directions his teammates swarm him. Hugs and words of praise. Despites the bodies bumping into him, he's able to spin in his coach's direction and catch Coach Bowser shaking his head with a smile ear to ear.

Then it strikes again.

The deafening arena, excited teammates, and smiling Coach Bowser evaporate for a sinister darkness. Crawling shadows, harsh slabs of concrete, and a shape crumpled in the road ahead. Vic can't stop. He rushes toward the unmoving form, unwillingly. He wanted to do anything else. He knew the outcome, but he couldn't stop his reckless charge.

He reaches what turns out to be a young boy and pushes him. Pushes him hard, sending the boy flailing into an inky abyss, an incredible heat and lights blinding him. As before, he turns in time to meet the 5 tons of metal and wheels racing towards him.

"AH, SHIT!" It's all gone as he sits up, the mattress groaning in protest under his weight. He covers his face with both hands, but can only feel their icy-cold on one cheek. He pulls them away from his face and glares down at his hands. They were never warm. Always cold. Nor could they feel a basketball's leathery-rubber anymore. Instead, he could see his own reflection in their sheen. The red eye of doom glowing back at him in the dark. His hands were synthetic. Just like so much else of him was now.

He glances at the digital alarm clock next to the bed. It read: 03:11am. He lets loose a monstrous exhale. "Man, not again. I hate nightmares."


A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a review, whether it be praise or constructive criticism! Last slow chapter, promise!