"Welcome back to our presentation of 'The Finals', presented by on I.B.C. We're at the Continuum Center, home of the National Basketball League's own Twin-City Blues! We're in the dying seconds of Winning-Time. Rookie, Trace LaRose has been on a tear…"
On the hardwood…the cacophony of the crowd of twenty-thousand fans filling the arena washed over Trace as he jogged up court, ice in his veins as he remained poised under the heat of the spotlight. He paused at the top of the three-point perimeter, controlling the ball as if a natural extension of himself.
The polished hardwood gleamed under the harsh arena lights, furthering the intensity upon the players, and expectations of the fans. The refrain of screeching shoes carried across the court's wood. A raucous crowd of people on their feet filled the arena air with an electrifying energy that made every hair stand on end…
An overflow of sweat trickled down Trace's face, arms, and legs. The purple and teal uniform plus the knee-high compression leggings became claustrophobic somewhere around the second-half, every inch of cloth clinging to his lean frame…
Trace was in his element, and he wouldn't have it any other way than this…
The scoreboard loomed ominously in red LED above the backboard, winding down: 78-76, opponents lead, just 10 seconds left on the clock. This was it…
"Will we see the rookie lead the Blues franchise to it's first title in its sixty-year existence?" The play-by-play announcer exclaimed, his voice pitched high with excitement.
Trace's eyes darted across the court, reading the defense like a chess master analyzing the board.
"One final push…" He thought, his mind muddled by fatigue and dehydration.
Trace signaled a play, holding up two fingers. The reaction was immediate, his teammates began to move in a choreographed dance of cuts and screens meant to mislead, confuse, bodily block, or get their opponents out of position.
Trace leaned down, dribbling low between his right and left hand, defended by an opposing player who tentatively swiped at the ball. With a lightning-quick crossover, Trace drove right, stopped, and stepped back leaving his defender stumbling and late to recover…
His heart pounded as he leapt for the game-winning shot, the ball leaving his fingertips with a soft spin. The crowd's roar faded to a dull hum as time slowed, the ball leaving his fingertips with perfect rotation. But as he landed, a searing pain exploded in his knee. He crashed to the hardwood, the ball clanging off the rim as the buzzer sounded.
Crack!
A sound like a gunshot. Trace's knee exploded with pain as he landed. The world tilted, hardwood rising to meet his face. Through blurred vision, he saw the ball clang off the rim.
"Ahh, nnghhh!" Trace seethed, clutching his shattered knee, rolling onto his side in pain. Warm blood seeped between his fingers, the bone protruding oddly through his flesh.
Through a haze of agony, Trace heard the announcer's voice: "Game over! LaRose's last second heroics falls short. Last year's champs will repeat the dream, becoming back-to-back champions!"
"John, this is not good. LaRose is down at the corner 3-point line. And that looks like a devastating injury, to a devastating end!" A second announcer added quietly, shaking his head. "You just...never like to see this. And the trainers rush onto the court, immediately signaling for a stretcher. We'll be back with an update after the commercial break…"
Darkness swallowed the scene, only to be replaced by a sterile, futuristic medical bay. Trace found himself lying on an operating table, a red glow pulsing around him.
"It can all be so simple, just let me help." the System's voice echoed. "I can make you better than before."
Trace watched in horror as robotic arms descended, replacing his shattered knee with a sleek, metallic joint.
The scene shifted. Trace was back on the basketball court, healthy, and moving with unnatural speed and agility. A news ticker scrolled across his vision:
"LaRose makes miraculous comeback, leads team to championship with bionic knee."
Trace stood on a futuristic court, neon lines pulsing beneath his feet. His metallic knee gleamed under the harsh lights. The stands were blacked out, making the spotlights that revolved over raucous fans with light-sticks and blinking neon signage making the environment intimidating and all the more distracting and obfuscating as a backdrop.
"LaRose for three!" an announcer's voice boomed through a glitchy sound effect. Trace leapt, arcing his shot, the ball sinking soundlessly through the rim striking only the net.
As he landed, a sharp pain lanced through his shoulder, his labrum torn. Trace stumbled, clutching his arm.
The red glow returned. "Tsk, tsk. Human parts are so... limited. Shall we upgrade?"
"O-okay?" Trace answered reluctantly, not entirely confident, but before he could reconsider…metallic tendrils enveloped his arm. He watched in numbed, ignorant passivity as his flesh was stripped away, and replaced his muscle and bone with sleek solid-state cybernetics.
With each game that Trace appeared in, the days began to blur one into another until the years blurred by. With each injury, each performance slump, more of Trace was replaced.
"LaRose breaks all-time scoring record at age 41, shows no signs of slowing down!" A holographic news headline proclaimed.
The basketball courts changed, becoming more futuristic, and other-worldly. Trace's teammates and opponents were replaced by robots, androids, aliens, gods & goddesses, demi-gods, human mixed-species, and what he called 'multiverse-humans' -Humans he only saw in books, comics, movies, and anime- Pulled from multiversal realms and possessed what he once called super-powers. And to his astonishment, some even possessed powerful Systems of their own.
And yet…he played on, his body now more machine than man.
"The grizzled veteran, Century-old LaRose continues to dominate Multiversal Basketball League with latest win over the 'Single Piece' realm's, Team Juffy. Becomes most decorated warrior-athlete in existence." An AI commentator's voice buzzed.
Trace's dream became a thrillingly nightmarish, unrealistic show of power, success, and dominance by all means necessary.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the artificial surface of his Beiyang naval fleet ship, won off the Dacia Alliance of the Iron-Maidens realm. His face was the only part that remained human, aged, but sustained by the System's numerous enhancements. Everything else was a complex network of cybernetics and alien technology.
His bright brown eyes were next replaced...by cybernetic optical sensors, granting him superhuman court vision. His legs, pure machinery, allowed for impossible inextinguishable speed and agility, and his organs later replaced with solid-state artificial bionics to keep up with the demand.
"What... what's happened to me?" Trace's voice carried a metallic rasp as he traced his hands - flesh wrapped over bleeding edge, solid-state cybernetics - over his biocybernetic, artificially fleshed over body. His hands and body looked as he remembered, but most certainly felt unlike the body he was birthed with. "Yes, though I was complicit…but t-this is…this may be too much…" He trailed off, unable to finish.
The shadow materialized beside him, its red glow reflecting off Trace's cybernetic body. "I've made you perfect. Isn't this what you wanted? To play forever? Don't worry so much, and enjoy the ride."
Trace sighed repentantly, a proper response escaping him.
Trace's life events began spiraling, his life and achievements blurring into feats of what was once unimaginable gameplay, a disgustingly opulent life, and high-risk basketball that was no longer simply about wins and losses, post-season play and finals victories, tournaments featuring the best players and teams, bragging rights or title wins, or big time money...
Trace found himself playing on the outer-rings of planets and their many moons and stars. Basketball courts that floated upon multicolored seas, where fans stood on water, crowding the outer-court perimeter like adrenaline thirsty fiends. He showed off his skills inside monstrous coliseums that hosted hundreds of thousands of gambling addicted fans…
There were the larger than life basketball courts housed on mighty interplanetary marine ships, housing artificial gravity, increased to disadvantage his team and weigh him down... Where fans watched through holographic visual feeds broadcast across galaxies and universes.
Eye-popping outdoor courts lined with revolving grandstands. Many of them home to grandios, floating cities suspended at impossible heights. Some inspired by fargone Earth eras recorded in history books of advanced civilizations, reduced to world-building inspirations.
Trace blinked, and he was dunking to win high-risk games held upon the moons and stars of planets he'd never heard of as game-clocks crafted from sealing magic expired.
Places he would never have been able to imagine, his 'flesh-over-adamantine cybernetic' body gleaming gloriously under the suns of foreign universes before giddy, obnoxious, and happily thrilled kings, queens, gods, and goddesses of every universe, realm, and world unthinkable.
And like clockwork, the headlines became unfathomable to his former Earth standards, now so long into his past. Soon, he found that 'impossible' was a word most of his opponents, fans, enemies, and admirers couldn't comprehend or possessed a translation for…
"LaRose signs billion-year contract extension," flashed the latest headline.
"Is LaRose the greatest player in the history of the multiverse?" Debated a panel of alien sports analysts.
Intergalactic influencers... Some with vibrant, impossible skin colors, multiple eyes and numerous limbs. Various forms of teenaged androids and artificial intelligence housing souls. And human-mixed species that independently covered his deep, lengthy history to millions of viewers, inhuman by any Earth standards…they no longer only existed solely in fiction.
"LaRose's win streak exceeds 10,000 games," scrolled across a cosmic scoreboard that passed through the multiverse.
Through it all, Trace felt himself slipping away…piece by piece. Trace's humanity faded a little bit more with each enhancement, each victory, each time jump, and each realm traveled. He could barely recall his family, but thinking about them just made matters so much worse…
Basketball, once his passion, had become his duty as a new type of baller, a new type of player, and a new type of athlete… The 'Warrior-Athlete'… One who dominated the multiversal realms without restraint.
As the universe continued to change, shift, and evolve around him, Trace heard the System's voice one last time:
"This is what greatness looks like, Trace. This is what I can offer you. All you have to do... is say yes. I live to serve…to serve you…to support your desire to play as fully as possible. We can go farther still!" his System promised. "Let's destroy the boundaries..."
The scene shifted again, this time Trace was at peace on a rare lazy day away from the glitz, the glammer, the celebrations in his honor, and the high-stakes pressure of life-risking, supra-competitive gameplay that was now his life.
Although he no longer required 'rest', or 'sleep' by human standards, he lay still, simply to do so…as one of the last things under his control.
Then…he opened his eyes, the technology of his bionic eyes telling him that he was indeed, at home. A breeze passed over him, causing his thick, ear-length, gray streaked black curls to fall over his eyes.
Trace blinked, finding himself in a luxurious penthouse, its walls existing of some opalescent material that shimmered with colors he couldn't name, and allowed the breeze of the day to fill the area.
Through floor-to-ceiling windows, he saw a rotating, traveling cityscape that defied all physics. Buildings that twisted into impossible shapes against a sky painted with three suns. It was all presented with a picturesque backdrop of vibrant violets, orange bursts, golden-yellows, bright reds, and spattered sky-blues. Others such incredible skyscrapers stood on their own suspended in the air, bobbing up and down subtly... much like his own, he discovered.
Then he heard the shifting of fabric, but the lack of resounding footsteps made him turn with a start. Just as he turned, he eyes were beset by a woman entering the room, and Trace felt his breath catch in his throat - or would have, had he still needed to breathe.
She was devastatingly beautiful. He could have shed a tear if he still had the ability. Her supple, toned flesh held a soft lavender hue, her hair resembled finely spun silver, and her eyes… Her eyes held swirling galaxies within. All in all, she presented a godly and regal presence.
"Who... who are you?" Trace's voice was a curious, metallic rasp as the woman's long, symmetric, toned legs carried her soundlessly towards him. The long slit to the left of her dress, the fabric resembling a waterfall the way it draped over her, giving him a show of voluptuous thighs as full hips swayed in a show of effortless sensuality and high-class.
The woman laughed, a chiming sound like trickling crystals. "Oh, you're so silly, my love! I'm your most glorious and honored wife, of course. Don't you remember?"
Trace stared hard at her in silent awe, sheer confusion and morbid-fascination warring in his mind. "W-wife? But I don't... I never..."
She glided closer, her movements unnaturally smooth and without sound. "Such a goof!" She giggled behind a delicate hand. "But I love that part about you…" She said, obviously amused.
"You won me, darling. In the 500th Annual Great Galactic Games. You led your team to an improbable come back. One that resulted in your last-second victory shot obliterating my home planet." Her smile was absolutely radiant, showing teeth like polished pearls.
His wife's smile was so vibrant, sensually innocent, that Trace thought his heart would've ached had he still had it. "It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen…besides yourself at the moment of your triumph, that is." She winked. "You were so...ferocious." She hummed, her eyes seemingly looking into the distance...recalling the memory.
Trace's words caught in his throat before he was able to speak. "I... destroyed your planet? And you're happy about this?" Trace felt sick, or what would've passed for sickness in his cybernetic body.
The woman - his wife - draped herself across a hovering chaise lounge of pure white. "Of course I am." She swept her hand through impossibly long hair with a content hum.
"We live fabulously, do we not? The greatest basketball player and Warrior-Athlete to ever live and his goddess trophy wife." She giggled again, the sound sending shivers down Trace's spine.
"Besides," she sighed. "You're no less a slave than I am, my love. My home lived by the rule of strength. And had my creation...home of many great warriors, magicians, powerful dynastic families, and other gods/goddesses were truly strong…then they wouldn't have lost. They really brought it upon themselves."
"What do you mean?" Trace asked, dreading the answer.
Her galaxy possessed eyes fixed on him as dying stars filled in for pupils, suddenly serious. "We're both servants to the game, aren't we? You, bound to play for eternity. Me, bound to you. But oh, what a glorious servitude it is!" The stars exploded within her irises as she exclaimed, quasars and galaxies filling them once more.
She suddenly rose, moving towards him with feline grace that foreshadowed her sexuality. Trace wanted to step back, to run, but his cybernetic body wouldn't respond. As she reached up to caress his face so gently, with affection he felt he didn't deserve - the only part of him still human - her fingers left trails of stardust on his caramel flesh.
"Isn't this what you always wanted, my great champion?" she whispered, her breath smelling of ozone and eternity as her lips brushed lovingly against his own. "To be the best, forever and ever? As I wish to be by your side likewise?"
Trace tried to scream, but no sound came out. He was trapped, not just in this body, but in this life - a nightmare of success taken to its most extreme, horrifying conclusion.
She practically purred as she caressed his cybernetic flesh, sending tingles through him. "Don't feel badly, my love. I don't. As a warrior-goddess who stood against you to protect my creation, you've been equally kind and cruel, even gracious in your victory… Blessed me with this rich, vibrant life, and been a blissfully wonderous lover. Any woman...or goddess, would be hard-pressed to find a mate half as worthy as you…" She whispered, pecking his lips with short kisses a few times.
She smiled again. "And honestly…were our roles reversed, and my chosen ones defeated you instead? I certainly wouldn't be so…benevolent."
Trace looked at her with a forced affection and love that he didn't feel as the woman - his wife, his prize, his fellow prisoner - smiled up at him, her galaxy filled eyes swirling with an infinity of stars.
And in their depths, Trace saw the reflection of what he had become: a monster who destroyed worlds for sport, who claimed people as trophies, all in the name of being the greatest of all time…of any time.
The System hadn't just taken his humanity; it had taken his soul and destroyed his home…as well as his livelihood and all he held dear.
Then it all faded to black, a bright light blinding him as it fell over him and this horrific moment.
"Awaken, Trace LaRose...your journey has yet to truly begin…" A soft, far-flung whisper pulled at him, welcoming him.
Trace jolted awake, gasping for air, the nightmare still clinging to him like a cold sweat. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of his bedroom, he realized this was no mere dream. It was…what was it? For something he knew was a nightmare, one that felt so real…that explanation wasn't doing the situation justice.
That couldn't have been his System. What sort of manipulation could one, or anything gain from showing... forcing him to experience such a negative imagination?
He'd reject it outright. No questions asked
"No, that was something else." He assured himself quietly in the silence of his bedroom as he noticed the System was completely silent…nowhere to be found. It's presence, usually on the edge of his perception, was noticeably missing.
He looked out his window to see the sun had yet to begin rising as he wiped the cold-sweat from his forehead, and shifted out of bed searching for a towel. He was drenched in sweat.
"What is happening to me?" He asked himself, staring at the reflection of the frightened 15-year old in the full-body mirror...