Five Weeks of War

The five weeks before Lincoln High's season opener dissolved into a relentless torrent, a flood of sweat, aching bones, and a fire that blazed in Elijah's chest, unyielding and wild. Time warped and twisted, days bleeding into nights stitched with the squeak of sneakers and the steady thump of a basketball against his weathered hands. If he wasn't slumped over a desk at school, he was in the gym, Coach Johnson's whistle a piercing deity commanding his every stride. If he wasn't at practice, he haunted the street court three blocks from home, its cracked asphalt glowing faintly under stuttering streetlights, driving his body until his legs wobbled and his breath tore from him in jagged gasps. This wasn't just training—it was redemption, a second chance ripped from the jaws of a life he'd lost, and he'd fight tooth and nail to keep it.

His routine hardened into a punishing cycle, each week a hammer forging him sharper, tougher, closer to game one:

Week One: Relearning the Game

The first days were a cold slap of reality. Elijah stood in the gym, lacing his battered Nikes, the system's rules ringing in his head like a stern warning—no XP for drills, no VC for practice or scrimmages. Hours of draining shots in the gym's hollow silence, the ball's echo his only witness, wouldn't earn him a single point of currency. Only official games counted now, a truth that sank into him like a stone. He'd dreamed of stacking VC in the shadows, but the system demanded he prove himself under the lights, in the chaos of a real scoreboard. So he shifted gears—every dribble snapped with game-speed urgency, every jumper mimicked a catch-and-shoot off a live pass, every shuffle mirrored a slide against a pressing defender. Five assisted makes in a game to unlock Catch & Shoot—that was his silent mission, a goal he buried deep, unspoken. "Gotta be locked in when it's real," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow as the gym's musty air coated his lungs.

Week Two: Forging the Core

Strength and conditioning turned into his proving ground. Coach Johnson, a grizzled bear of a man with a voice like a gravel pit, ran them through suicides until the hardwood swam beneath their feet. "Move it, Reed! You're not here to loaf!" he'd bark, and Elijah would clench his jaw, legs churning until his vision blurred and his calves felt like they'd shatter. He wasn't shooting up in height—still a wiry 5'5"—but he could build endurance, could stretch his limits to match the inferno in his soul. That Build the Foundation quest he'd conquered weeks ago had edged his stats up—small bumps to stamina, strength, agility—but it was a spark, not a blaze. He needed more. Every sprint was a battle won, every collapse a triumph. By week's end, he sprawled on his bed, chest heaving, a grin cracking through the exhaustion—he was sturdier, even if just a sliver.

Week Three: Facing the Heat

Scrimmages threw him into the crucible. Full-court five-on-five, varsity starters slamming against reserves, and Elijah felt the weight of real competition for the first time. This wasn't solo reps or shadow drills—this was raw, defenders crowding his space, elbows sharp, the ball a live wire begging to be tamed. He wasn't just playing; he was measuring himself against kids who'd ruled the court last season. Five assisted makes—that was the key ticking in his mind. First scrimmage, he snagged one: Malcolm Lewis, all gangly limbs and loudmouth, zipped him a pass in the corner, and Elijah rose, the ball splashing through clean. "That's my man!" Malcolm whooped, clapping his back. Second scrimmage, two more—a sharp feed from Derrick Hayes off a screen, then a bounce pass from Malcolm in transition. By Friday, he hit four, the system's count a quiet pulse: [4/5 Assisted Makes]. One more, so close he could taste it.

Week Four: Scraping for Daylight

The final week before rosters solidified was a tightrope walk. Elijah knew he'd made the team—Coach had rasped his name onto the list, a grudging nod—but minutes were a war zone, and he was no starter. Jamal Thornton, the team's captain, dominated with his 6'2" frame and silk-smooth jumper, while Terrance and the varsity vets gobbled up the reps. Elijah was a scavenger, clawing for every crack of opportunity. He found a flow, though—quick cuts, smart positioning, eyes always scanning. In the last scrimmage, he darted down the floor in transition, planted in the corner, and Malcolm slung him a laser pass. "Hit it!" Malcolm yelled, and Elijah didn't flinch—up, release, swish. The gym buzzed with scattered cheers, and the system chimed: [Catch & Shoot Badge Unlocked – Bronze]. No rush, no glow—just a silent shift, a tool now in his arsenal. He'd earned it, and that was enough.

Week Five: The Weighing

The night before the opener, Elijah sprawled across his bed, the springs creaking under him like a chorus of tired bones. His room was a shrine to his obsession—Jordan and Magic glaring down from curling posters, a basketball scuffed to the grain in the corner, the faint stink of sweat baked into his gear. He'd started these weeks with 500 VC already banked—earned from some off-screen hustle, maybe a summer league game or a system perk he couldn't quite recall—and now he stared at the interface, a glowing blue grid flickering in his vision like a secret etched in light. His fingers twitched, craving action, but his mind wrestled, torn between spending and saving.

Attributes were on the table—50 VC per point, a steep toll. All 500 VC could nudge his Midrange Shot from 32 to 42, maybe enough to sink a few more in the opener. Speed, same deal—35 to 45, a tick quicker off the bounce. Stamina at 42 could climb to 52, keep him from wheezing by the third quarter. But it felt like tossing coins into a well—small splashes, no surge. He needed something lasting, something that stuck.

Badges were the real gold. Permanent. Defining. Stats could creep up with grind, but a badge was a cornerstone, a mark of who he'd be. He scrolled the list, each one a whisper of potential:

Handles for Days: 1,000 VC to purchase once unlocked. Smoother chains, less drain on moves. A dream to dance past defenders, but 500 VC was half the haul. Quick First Step: 1,200 VC. Explosive bursts, a jolt to blow by guards. Too far off yet. Clamps: 1,500 VC. Lockdown defense, shadowing ballhandlers like a specter. A distant prize, when he could stonewall stars.

Then he saw it—Deadeye. Unlock requirement: five contested makes in a game. Purchase price: 1,000 VC to activate at Bronze once earned. A badge for shooters who thrived in the fray, turning pressure into points. Elijah's lips curled into a smirk, a quiet hunger flaring in his gut. That was the next peak—five shots with hands in his face, defenders clawing at him, and he'd seize it.

"Gotta build it up," he murmured, voice a low rumble in the quiet. "Game one's the start."

He closed the interface, the glow fading, and leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling's cracked web. 500 VC wasn't enough to buy big yet—he'd hoard it, let it swell with every official game, every dime he scraped under the lights. The opener loomed—tomorrow night against Carver High, a scrappy west-side crew with quick guards and a mean streak. His stomach knotted, nerves tangling with resolve. Catch & Shoot was unlocked, a silent weapon, but Deadeye was the grail, and he'd need every shred of fight to grab it.

Morning crept in, gray and heavy, and Elijah shuffled into the kitchen, legs aching like they'd been pounded flat. Martha stood at the stove, her scrubs rumpled from a graveyard shift, stirring oatmeal that filled the air with cinnamon and a whisper of brown sugar. She glanced over, her weary eyes softening, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Morning, my little soldier," she said, spoon clinking against the pot. "Big day, huh? First game tonight?"

"Yeah," he said, slumping into a chair, voice rough with sleep. "Feels like it's barreling down on me—kinda heavy."

She chuckled, a warm wave that cut through the morning's chill. "Heavy's good—means you care. I'll be there, yelling loud enough to wake the west side. You eating right today? No vending machine garbage, alright?"

He grinned, grabbing a bowl as she ladled oatmeal in, steam curling up like a promise. "No junk, promise. Gotta stay sharp—Carver's fast, and I'm not trying to get left behind."

"Smart boy," she said, sipping her coffee, the mug's heat fogging her glasses. "You've been killing yourself out there—I see it in your eyes. Don't go breaking before you even start."

"Won't," he said, digging in, the warmth seeping into him like a balm. "Pacing it—good food, hard work, some sleep. That's the plan."

"Solid plan," she said, ruffling his hair as she passed, her touch a quiet tether. "Make me proud tonight, baby."

"Always," he shot back, the word a vow layered with depths she'd never fathom.

School slogged by, a blur of chalk dust and droning lectures, the opener's hum crackling through the halls like a live wire. Lunch was a riot, Malcolm and Derrick sprawled at their table, trays piled with fries and burgers, the air thick with grease and chatter.

"Yo, Reed, you set for Carver?" Malcolm said, tossing a fry skyward and snagging it midair. "Heard their point guard's got jets—gonna smoke you if you're napping."

Elijah smirked, munching a carrot stick—nutrition on his mind. "Let him try. I've been working my spots—get me the ball, and I'm cashing it."

"Big talk!" Derrick laughed, slow and deep. "You cashing or clanking? Last scrimmage, you were hit-or-miss."

"Hit-or-miss beats your benchwarming stats," Elijah fired back, grinning as Derrick waved him off with a lazy hand.

"Watch me tonight—I'm slinging you passes," Malcolm said, leaning in, eyes glinting. "Carver's soft on the edges. We get you open, you're eating."

"Bet," Elijah said, voice steady. "Need some tough ones too—gonna bury 'em when they're in my face."

"Tough ones?" Malcolm whistled. "Man, you're dreaming like MJ. Better not brick when I dish it."

"No bricking," Elijah said, steel in his tone. "Just keep it coming."