Aftermath

The morning after the season opener dawned gray and heavy, the sky over Chicago's South Side a bruised canvas spitting drizzle against Elijah's bedroom window. He woke to a body that ached like it'd been through a war—legs stiff as rusted hinges, shoulders knotted tight, a faint throb pulsing in his calves from the hardwood battles of last night. But beneath the soreness, a current of electricity hummed, a wild, restless energy that had him grinning into his pillow before his eyes even fully opened. Lincoln High 51, Carver High 50. Sixteen points off the bench—seven buckets, five contested, two from deep—plus a steal, an assist, a rebound, and the chaos of a buzzer-beating win. His first official game, his first real taste of the system's promise, and it felt like fire in his veins.

He rolled out of bed, wincing as his feet hit the cold floor, the linoleum a shock against his bare soles. The room was still dim, the posters on his walls—Jordan mid-flight, Magic's megawatt grin, Shaq's hulking menace—faint shadows in the gloom. His jersey, number 14, lay crumpled in the corner where he'd tossed it last night, the faded red fabric still damp with sweat and glory. Five weeks of relentless grind had carried him here, the Build the Foundation quest a distant memory now, its rewards—+2 Stamina, +2 Strength, +1 Agility—woven into his bones. Eggs and toast every morning, Martha's chicken and rice at night, hours of drills under streetlights, sleep snatched in disciplined chunks—it'd paid off, his stats nudging up, his body holding firm through the opener's fury. And now, with 820 VC banked from last night's haul, the system's currency burned a hole in his mind. Time to spend it, to sharpen the blade.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of coffee and burnt toast, a familiar hymn that tugged at his heart. Martha stood by the counter, still in her nurse's scrubs from an overnight shift, her curls spilling loose from a tired bun. She sipped from a chipped mug, the steam curling like a ghost, and glanced up as Elijah shuffled in, gym shorts sagging, hair a wild mop.

"Morning, hero," she said, her voice rough with fatigue but warm as the stew she'd made weeks ago. Her smile crinkled her eyes, pride glowing through the exhaustion. "Heard you lit up Carver last night—Mrs. Lewis called me at the hospital, said Malcolm's grandma nearly lost her voice cheering for you."

Elijah grinned, snagging a piece of toast from the plate she'd left out, the edges charred but the butter melting soft. "Yeah, it was wild," he said, leaning against the counter, crumbs tumbling as he took a bite. "Came down to the wire—Jamal hit a three at the buzzer off my kick-out. Felt like the roof was gonna blow off."

Martha chuckled, setting her mug down with a clink. "That's my boy. Knew you had it in you—been watching you hustle out there like a man possessed. Don't go getting a big head now, though. You're still washing dishes tonight."

"Wouldn't dream of skipping out," he shot back, grinning wider as he chewed. "Gotta keep my MVP status in this house too, right?"

"Keep talking like that, and I'll make you scrub the stove too," she teased, swatting his arm with a dish towel. "But seriously—proud of you, baby. Keep that fire burning, just don't let it eat you alive."

Her words landed soft but heavy, a tether to the life he was building—for himself, for her. He nodded, swallowing the toast and the lump in his throat. "I won't, Mom. Promise."

She studied him a moment longer, then waved him off with a yawn. "Go on, get ready for school. I'm crashing—those night shifts are no joke."

"Rest up," he said, voice softening as he grabbed his backpack. "Love you."

"Love you too, baby," she called as he headed out, the door creaking shut behind him.

The walk to Lincoln High was a blur of drizzle and chatter, kids huddled under hoodies, the air sharp with wet pavement and exhaust. Elijah's mind churned, VC tallies flickering like neon signs: 500 pre-game, 320 earned—50 for playing, 80 for points, 20 for the assist, 40 for steals, 10 for the rebound, 50 for the win. 820 total, a modest stack, but enough to start shaping his game. Deadeye was unlocked—five contested makes in the clutch—and Bronze cost 1,000 VC. He was close, but not there. What else could he grab? Catch & Shoot? Corner Specialist? The system was a puzzle, and he was itching to crack it.

The gym buzzed at lunch, a spillover of last night's chaos—kids replaying the game in loud bursts, the air thick with fries and bravado. Elijah slid into their usual table, Malcolm Lewis already mid-rant, waving a fry like a conductor's baton, Derrick Hayes nodding along with a half-smile.

"Yo, Reed, you were a sniper out there!" Malcolm crowed, his grin splitting wide as he leaned across the table. "Five contested buckets? Man, Darius was jumping like a fool, and you just kept draining 'em—swish, swish, swish! Grandma's still talking about that spin you pulled—said you got moves like MJ."

Elijah laughed, popping a fry into his mouth, the salt a sharp kick. "She's exaggerating—I'm not Jordan yet. Just got hot, that's all."

"Hot?" Derrick rumbled, his deep voice cutting through Malcolm's hype. "You were ice, man. That kick-out to Jamal at the end? Cold-blooded. Carver's coach looked like he was gonna choke on his whistle."

"Had to," Elijah said, smirking as he leaned back. "Malcolm was too busy dancing with Darius—someone had to close it out."

Malcolm barked a laugh, tossing a fry that bounced off Elijah's chest. "Dancing? Bro, I was cooking him—had him tripping over his own laces! You just got the scraps I left behind."

"Scraps?" Elijah shot back, flicking the fry back with a grin. "You mean the pass I turned into three? Tell your grandma I'll take her to dinner if I drop 20 next game—she'll be yelling my name louder than yours."

"Better save up, then," Derrick said, chuckling low. "You're a problem off that bench, Reed—Malcolm's just mad you stole his shine."

"Shine?" Malcolm scoffed, slapping the table. "I'm the sun out there—Reed's just a little spark plug. But real talk, you keep hitting like that, Coach might start you over Terrance. Dude was gassed by the third."

Elijah's grin softened, the banter a warm hum against the storm in his head. "We'll see. Just gotta keep grinding—Carver was fast, but we've got Westside next. They're bigger, slower—gonna need more than sparks to take 'em."

"Westside's a brick wall," Derrick said, sipping his soda with a nod. "Their center's like 6'4", built like a tank. You'll need to dance around him, not through him."

"Dancing's my specialty," Elijah quipped, but his mind was already spinning—VC, badges, the system's quiet promise. He had work to do.

After school, the gym was quiet, the echoes of practice fading as the team shuffled out, leaving Elijah alone with the hardwood's ghosts. He sat on the bleachers, ball bouncing idly between his knees, the air still thick with sweat and rubber. His stats from last night glowed in his mind—16 points, 7-of-10 shooting, 2-of-3 from deep, 1 assist, 2 steals, 1 rebound—and 820 VC banked, a treasure he'd earned with every swish and swipe. Deadeye was unlocked, a badge that'd make contested shots his domain, but 1,000 VC for Bronze was out of reach. He needed a plan, a way to stretch what he had into something sharp.

"System," he muttered, voice low, the ball stilling in his hands. "You there?"

[Ding! NBA 2K System Active.]

Relief washed through him, a quiet anchor. "Good. I've got 820 VC—let's talk options. What can I buy, and what's the ceiling on these attributes?"

[Acknowledged. Analyzing VC and badge options… Attribute ranges provided for context:]

100 points and above: Historical-level Superstars—Jordan's fadeaways, LeBron's freight-train drives, Curry's infinite range. The pantheon of legends who bend history.

90-100: Superstar to Super Star—All-NBA locks, franchise faces like Penny in his prime or Durant torching nets. Elite, but not immortal.

80-90: All-Star to Superstar—consistent studs, your Grants Hills and Chris Pauls, game-changers who shine bright but don't always own the spotlight.

70-80: Main Player to All-Star—starters with juice, think Jamal Crawford or Zach Randolph, key cogs who can take over on a good night.

60-70: Rotation Player to Main Player—solid contributors, your Marcus Smarts or Lou Williamses off the bench, reliable but not headliners.

50-60: NBA Water Dispenser Manager to Rotation Player—end-of-bench guys, hustle kings like Patrick Beverley early on, scrapping for minutes.

[Current attributes hover in the 35-40 range—raw clay, moldable with effort. VC spending shapes the climb.]

Elijah exhaled, the ranges a ladder stretching skyward, his 35-40 stats a speck at the base. Jordan at 100+, Penny at 90—he was a water boy scrambling toward rotation, but every VC spent was a rung up. "Alright," he said, gripping the ball tighter. "What's on the table with 820?"

[Options available:]

- Catch & Shoot (Bronze): Boosts jump shots off passes—500 VC.

- Corner Specialist (Bronze): Elevates shots from the corners—600 VC.

- Tireless Scorer (Bronze): Reduces fatigue penalty on consecutive shots—700 VC.

- Deadeye (Bronze): Improves contested jumpers—1,000 VC (unlocked, insufficient VC).

[Additional VC required for higher tiers or new unlocks.]

He leaned back, the bleachers creaking under him, the gym's stillness amplifying his thoughts. Deadeye was the prize—five contested makes last night proved it'd be his bread and butter—but 180 VC short stung. Catch & Shoot at 500 would leave him 320, Corner Specialist at 600 would drop him to 220, Tireless Scorer at 700 would scrape him down to 120. He chewed his lip, the ball bouncing once, twice, a rhythm to think by. Catch & Shoot fit—Malcolm's zip passes, Jamal's screens, Derrick's picks—he'd thrived off assists last night, two of his makes from spot-ups. It'd sharpen his role, make him a threat off the ball while he stacked more VC for Deadeye.

"Catch & Shoot, Bronze," he said, decisive. "Buy it."

[Purchase confirmed: Catch & Shoot (Bronze) acquired. 500 VC deducted. Remaining balance: 320 VC.]

A shift rippled through him—not a flash, but a quiet settling, like a gear clicking into place. His hands felt steadier, his mind sharper imagining the next pass flying his way. He smirked, bouncing the ball harder—320 VC left, a cushion for the next game. Westside loomed Friday, their tank of a center a wall to dance around, and Catch & Shoot would let him pop off picks, stretch their D. Deadeye would wait—two more games like last night, maybe three, and he'd have the 1,000.

"Anything else?" he asked, the ball spinning on his finger like a globe.

[Current VC insufficient for additional badges. Recommendation: Stack performance in upcoming games—points, assists, steals accelerate earnings.]

"Got it," he said, standing, the ball tucked under his arm. "Westside's next—gonna milk every minute."

Later, at the street court, dusk painted the sky in streaks of orange and purple, the hoop's shadow stretching long across the asphalt. Elijah dribbled, the leather warm against his palms, replaying the opener—Darius' lunges, Malcolm's cackles, Martha's voice cutting through the roar. Sixteen points was a spark, but Westside's bulk would test him. Catch & Shoot hummed in his arsenal now, a tool to carve space, and he envisioned it—Malcolm's skip pass, a quick plant, the swish over a flailing hand.

"Yo, Reed!" Malcolm's voice broke the quiet, his lanky frame jogging up, a grin flashing. "Still out here? Thought you'd be soaking in glory after last night."

Elijah laughed, spinning the ball up. "Glory's nice, but Westside's coming. Gotta stay sharp—heard their center's a brick house."

"Brick house?" Malcolm snorted, snatching the ball mid-bounce. "More like a damn fortress—6'4", slow as hell but built like a linebacker. You'll need those quick feet, bro."

"Quick feet and quicker hands," Elijah said, swiping it back with a grin. "Gonna dance around him, pop some shots off your passes. You feeding me again?"

"Only if you don't brick," Malcolm teased, faking a pass then pulling it back. "Grandma's already planning your fan club—keep hitting, and she'll knit you a sweater."

"Tell her I'll take it in red," Elijah shot back, dribbling low. "But you better not botch the assist—don't want her yelling at you instead."

Malcolm laughed, loud and bright. "Man, you're on—let's run some two-on-two with the guys tomorrow. Westside won't know what hit 'em."

"Deal," Elijah said, squaring up for a jumper—swish, the net snapping clean. The night closed in, cool and quiet, but his chest burned, the system's promise a flame he'd stoke game by game. Catch & Shoot was his now, Deadeye in reach, and 320 VC waited for the next haul. Westside loomed, but so did his rise—every swish, every steal, every roar from Martha's lungs a step toward the ladder's top.

He launched another shot, the ball arcing high against the fading sky—swish—and grinned into the dark. The grind was alive, and he was just getting started.