Midnight Basketball
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Title: Midnight Basketball
Author: Genji
Warnings: confusion, ambiguity, slight ick, weird ending, slight
angst,
deathfic (yes, even on a basketball court there is death!)...
Disclaimer: I don't own anything...
Notes: it started out so nicely...but without a point, without a
plot...then
it came to me, and then it seems rushed...oh well. This should be a
warning
to me to never try to be detailed ever again. And basketball and
ballet
never mix well.
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The basketball court is empty at this time of night. The only sound
is the
whoosh-whoosh of passing cars, the headlights illuminating the grim
stage of
concrete for one brief, time-altering second as they come around the
corner
and then once more the rectangle is plunged into half darkness, save
for the
waning light of an old lamppost erected to deter would be drug-
dealers and
thieves.
The neighborhood itself is on the wrong side of the tracks; murder and
drive-bys are all too common in this slum. It's the sort of place
where you
lock your doors when you're driving through just in case some drug-
induced
crazy decides to way-lay your little ship in the night. No one walks
these
streets alone--even when the sun is out.
However, this latter statement is proven untrue as a man enters into
the
scene, lit by the lone lantern on a pole. He's carrying a basketball,
though probably no such thing has touched the concrete court for
weeks--maybe even months. The tired folk here don't have the energy
to play
anymore.
He is in his mid to late 20s, but his past has aged him, making him
seem
that much older than his chronological age. Wearing loose shorts and
an
olive-green tank, he stands in the shadows for a moment, watching for
other
movements on the court. There is none--and the courtyard is harshly
illuminated by another passing car, cranking out some sort of obscene
song
from its age-old radio. It moves slowly down the street. One of the
occupants yells profanities at the man with the ball, but he ignores
the
jibes and starts to slowly bounce the ball on the dyed-red
surface.
He dribbles to the far court, each step bringing him to a faster
speed until
he's running full tilt. Reaching the end of the concrete arena--
enclosed by
chain link fence--he whirls around, races back, and does a lay-up.
The ball
floats airily down through the net and lands with a harsh thump on the
floor. The man takes it to half court, dribbling it carelessly and
then
makes the three-point shot. He grabs the rebound and dances through
the
key, dodging the imaginary defense. Sidestepping one of his invisible
assailants, he completes a corner shot and watches the ball fall down
to the
earth. It bounces, uncaught, each time it bounces the distance from
the
ground gets smaller.
THUMP...thump...thump...thump...thump...
The orb rolls to his feet--as if someone has pushed it to him. He
picks it
up and gives it a few experimental bounces. Then he's off again,
performing
a ballet he has choreographed and perfected each time he has visited
this
concrete stage in the middle of nowhere. He has no audience except
for
those in his head as he leaps and doubles back, careful to obey all
the
regulations, but adding his own spin to the game in the process.
When the
dance has finished, he puts his head between his knees and takes a
couple
deep breaths. The man straightens and glares towards the unlit
entrance.
"You're late," he accuses, checking the ball at the dark hole in the
fence.
A car comes around the corner, exposing the two lurkers by the gate.
The
first is petite, finely boned and blond. He carries about him an
exotic
air, as if he has not sprung from the land he is standing upon, but
of one
far, far away. He catches the ball, holding the leather sphere
thoughtfully
in his hands.
His companion is darker--from the Mediterranean perhaps. His
overgrown
bangs cover one of his bright, emerald eyes. He holds a coat over his
shoulder, though its presence is unnecessary in the balmy air of the
summer
night. Reaching almost six feet, he's taller than either of the
other two
men. The garb he wears is similar to the first man's, with a white t-
shirt
and baggy shorts. His blond companion tosses him the ball and he
takes off
down the court, warming up for the Game, which is sure to follow.
The first player reclines against the fence, arms folded across his
chest.
He waits for someone else before they all take to the court to do
their
ritual scrimmage.
"Have you heard from him, Quatre?" he asks the finely built man, who
is
watching the swarthy player on the court work through his routine.
The man called Quatre shakes his head. "I don't know if he's coming
tonight, Heero," he remarks quietly, knowing full well that this is
unwelcomed news.
Heero shakes his tired head and says simply, "He will," before he's
out on
the court again, chasing the tall man with the ball.
They pass the time in silence, hearing only the thump, thump, thump
of the
leather against concrete and their heavy breathing. Neither is as
young as
they used to be, and times have changed since they were active
youths, but
no one has given up the Game. It is their center of gravity--that
which
keeps them all from flying off into space, going their own separate
ways,
never to be seen again. No matter what, the Game will continue.
A quiet clearing of a throat notifies the bystander that another one
has
come to join in--to do the minuet before he returns to his isolated
haunts
come morning. Quatre knows who it is before the newcomer stands
beside him.
Without moving his eyes from the scrimmage, he remarks, "You came."
The dark-haired man beside the exotic blonde nods quietly. He is from
oriental decent, most likely Chinese. Sharp eyes take in what has
unfolded,
"He's not here."
"He might not be coming tonight."
"He will."
"That's the same thing Heero said."
The Asian snorts, as if surprised that he and the first arrival
actually
agree on an issue. He strips off his coat, emblazoned with the
letter 'P'
on the back, and tosses it beside the one that the tall man left. The
dark-haired male from China wears a purple tank top above a pair of
loose
white pants.
The uni-banged man slaps the ball out of bounds, and it rolls to the
Asian's
feet. He picks it up and checks it to the lofty defender.
"Trowa," he nods at the man, who catches the ball.
"Wufei. You made it," is all that is said before the two players are
at it
again, pounding away the pains of an eternity with each sound the
ball makes
against the floor.
"It's time," Quatre says, and the two bystanders make their way onto
the
court.
Heero and Quatre side and face off against the other two. Trowa wins
the
tip-off, and everyone races to the far end of the court. The
defenders try
to block, try to steal the ball, but the tall man wins the basket.
His team
runs back to half court while Quatre brings it from the backcourt.
Heero
waits on the other side of the painted-line, trying to break free of
Trowa,
who is bent on intercepting it. But the interception is never made,
the
pass over the white line doesn't occur, as a single voice from the
gate
says, "Oh, so what am I? Chopped liver? Couldn't wait another five
minutes
to start, huh?"
A figure strides into the dim light, but he still seems to remain a
shadow,
even in the luminescence the dying bulb casts. The blond Quatre
grins,
still holding the ball.
"Duo! Didn't think you'd make it. I guess that means I owe Wufei
and Heero
something."
Heero, slightly amused by the comment, raises an eyebrow, but keeps
his eyes
intent on the prize--the ball. They're 0 to 3, and the score begs to
be
tied.
"Well, you'd think I have something better to do than trek all the
way down
to the middle of nowhere just to play with a bunch of aging losers
like
yourself. But, unfortunately, I don't. So here I am!"
He makes an elaborate mock-bow, his serpent braid sweeping the
concrete in
the process. He laughs for no apparent reason--just straightens up,
casts a
happy look around the group and laughs. It's met with confused and
questioning looks from the rest of the company. The braided man
grins,
having accomplished his mission and then sides with Trowa and Wufei,
citing
that they need all the help they can get. All he gets for this is a
swat
over the side of the head from Trowa.
Never missing a beat, Duo takes his place on the court, and it begins
again.
The pounding of feet, the thunk of leather against the concrete and
fingertips create the rhythm for the danseurs (1) to feel--to
follow. The
story develops upon the unyielding stage as each character plays his
part to
the fullest extent, displaying for an unseeing audience their story
filled
with pain and anguish.
No one stops to watch them in the shadows of the night. No one can
see that
this is more than just a group of men playing basketball at night.
They
don't see the desperation on the faces with each completed jump shot
or free
throw.
They play until they can play no more--until it hurts to send the
leather
sphere hurling down onto the stage. The sun is starting to peek over
the
horizon, but they can't see that--dilapidated buildings are in the
way. The
light bulb in the lamppost is flickering and the street is starting
to wake
up, slowly. Drug-dealers are returning to their corners and
alcoholics are
staggering home from their all-night binges. The five players pack up
quietly, each taking what he brought.
Perhaps a lingering delinquent might see the five shadows of men on
the
court. If he can remember a time before his last fix, he might even
experience déjà vu as he watches what will unfold next.
It seems almost natural, almost common place--a rusted out Ford
pickup turns
the corner in slow motion, sluggish rap blasting from its speakers at
the
early hour of the morning, but no one pays it any attention until the
shots
ring out. Duo, standing underneath the lamppost, falls to the ground,
lifeless, gray matter splattered on the concrete. His sightless
violet eyes
stare up into the dim, sputtering light.
The Ford seems to morph into a stalling Dodge with a custom paint job,
flames all along the sides seem to emphasize that this vehicle is
taking
souls to hell. A BANG from a 9mm Berretta drops Trowa to the
ground, the
blood staining his white, sweat stained t-shirt a new, crimson hue.
The Dodge shortens and the top disappears, as it becomes a Jeep
packed with
hate-filled, misunderstood individuals. Another projectile flies
from a
Smith & Wesson held by some punk in the slowly moving vehicle. This
time it
is Quatre's turn to die, as the slug makes a direct hit, burrowing
its way
into his heart.
The car mutates to the form of a Buick, more bullet holes than metal,
someone tosses out a lit cigarette. The gun, this time a Colt .45,
reverberates with the recoil as Wufei plummets to the unforgiving
concrete,
the air from his right lung hissing in and out with each labored
breath he
takes.
Time returns to its usual galloping pace, and the car takes on its
normal
shape--a form that has not altered in the previous five seconds.
It's a
green Saturn, reasonably new, but those inside will follow the same
route
all their predecessors did.
It's Heero's own fault for venturing out that late at night with no
one
else, and so they shoot him, laughing and joking as teenagers do.
They
won't be caught--cops are too scared of the drug-dealers, who own the
streets, to venture this far into the misery that is the slum on the
North
bank of the Potomac. It's all in good fun, isn't it? It's the same
as a
shooting gallery--the ducks fall as you hit them.
But those ducks don't bleed to death.
The Saturn speeds away as the last one falls to the hard surface,
staining
the concrete red. No doubt, by now, any watching wrongdoer has run
away,
not wanting to be questioned by police. If only he remained.
One by one the fallen rise. The braided one laughs as he gets up,
drenched
in his own ghostly blood.
"Damn! I never do get used to that. So, same time next month? Mount
Hope's so booooorrrrrrring--no one worth talking to. I mean you can
only
listen to Julie Andrews perform a rendition of the "Sound of Music"
so many
times before you want to kill her. Why couldn't I've gotten someone
cool to
hang with...like the Beatles? Or maybe even Queen. So much for
R.I.P.'ing,
right? Well, I'll be seeing you," he remarks carelessly, flipping
his braid
over his shoulder and walking out the gate, each step making him less
matter
and more ethereal.
The remaining nod their goodbyes, and slowly each makes their way to
the
gate, and their respective homes--their own personalized hells.
One of the fallen is left on the court. The final act in his short
life has
come to a close. He came to the Game flesh and blood--the last
player of
that sort--but will leave as much a phantom as his friends. One by
one he
has seen them fall, and it was his turn last night. He has been
trying for
many, many months since Wufei's death on that same court in late
autumn.
The tradition of the Game had started quite simply after the war,
when they
still lived close by the now forgotten strip of poverty. It had been
a
working class neighborhood, where everyone had hope of making enough
to get
out of the desperation of eviction. Upon the five's wanderings in the
evenings after an exhaustive day searching for work, they stumbled
across
the newly built court. The draw of the concrete, the stars and the
moon
beckoned to the half-grown men, and, not ones to argue too much with
fate,
they played--using an old, almost completely deflated, soccer ball.
Quatre moved up in the business world, and Wufei threw his hat into
the
political ring. While Heero stole cars and Duo picked pockets, Trowa
scrubbed dishes in the houses of the rich, they all returned to play
the
Game one more time.
However, one by one their numbers decreased as the neighborhood
degenerated
around this location, caught somewhere between yesterday and today,
but the
habit was too ingrained in all the players to change their meeting
place.
Each time they, both the living and dead, played out their grim tale,
they
knew full well that the chances of all of the living making it
through the
night were slim.
And then there was one.
And now there are none.
~owari~
Back
© 2001 by Genji. Please do not remove without permission.
(1) Male dancers (ballet dancers--not any other type...*glares* no
hentai
thoughts!)
The P on Wufei's Coat is for the Preventers...this
is after
EW, so I assumed that he went there to work. They have uniforms,
don't
they? I don't remember quite well what was on the jackets (*Echo
coughs*
[we had a long argument over the uniforms...just don't ask] fine,
over-shirts), but I believe that there was P somewhere on it...just
humor
me--creative license if I must invoke it.
