Stacking VC, Saving Fuel
November 5, 1995 crept over Chicago's South Side like a shadow with teeth, the sky a bruised tapestry slung low, spitting a fine, restless mist that tapped against Elijah Reed's bedroom window like a code he couldn't crack. He woke slow, a groan clawing out as his body sang a dirge—legs rigid as warped planks, knees throbbing with a dull, insistent ache, shoulders twisted into knots that wouldn't unravel. Six days of practice since the season opener had carved him hollow, a brutal slog of drills and scrimmages that left him teetering, but beneath the wreckage, a feral spark flickered—a jagged flame licking at his chest, wild and alive. Lincoln High's 51-50 thriller against Carver High on October 30th had been his baptism—sixteen points off the bench, seven buckets, two from deep, a steal, an assist, a rebound, and Jamal's buzzer-beating three off his pass. It was his first taste of the system's fire, and it burned like a promise he'd die to keep.
He rolled out of bed, a hiss escaping as his feet slapped the icy linoleum, the shock jolting up his shins like a warning shot. The room clung to its gloom, posters of Jordan, Magic, and Shaq fading into shadow, their eyes piercing through the dim like ghosts of what he chased. His jersey—number 14, red and frayed—sprawled in the corner, a sweat-stained relic of the opener's glory, but the ache in his knees whispered a darker tale. In his old life, a college sophomore's pivot had ended it all—a sickening pop, a torn ACL, dreams bleeding out on a hardwood floor, leaving him a mechanic with a limp and a graveyard of regrets. That fear gnawed at him still, driving him to the street court last night, pushing past midnight despite the system's cold truth: training didn't bump stats anymore, only games stacked VC. He'd been caught in a loop, a bad habit from a past life where hustle was his shield against collapse. But this morning, staring at his trembling hands, he felt the weight—he couldn't keep running from rest like it was the enemy.
Downstairs, the kitchen hummed with the scent of coffee and charred toast, a rough-edged lullaby that tugged at his soul. Martha stood by the counter, still in her pale blue scrubs from a graveyard shift, her curls spilling wild from a fraying bun. She cradled a chipped mug, steam curling like a phantom, and glanced up as Elijah shuffled in, gym shorts sagging, hair a tangled snarl.
"Morning, my little warrior," she said, her voice gravelly with fatigue but warm as a hearth fire breaking the dawn. Her smile crinkled her eyes, a fierce pride cutting through the weariness. "Saw you out there against Carver last week—had my heart pounding so hard I nearly spilled my soda in the stands. You ready to take on Westside Friday? They're a whole different animal."
Elijah grinned, snagging a piece of toast from the plate she'd left out, the edges black as coal but the butter pooling soft and golden. "Yeah, Mom, it was a madhouse against Carver," he said, leaning against the counter, crumbs tumbling as he bit in. "Jamal's three off my pass at the buzzer—place went nuts, thought the roof was gonna cave. Westside's gonna be tougher, though—heard their center's a beast."
Martha set her mug down with a gentle clink, her eyes sharpening as she leaned forward. "Tougher's right—I saw 'em play last year, that big kid in the middle's like a wall with legs, 6'4" and solid. You were dancing circles around Carver's guards—gonna need that quick step Friday or he'll squash you flat."
"Quick step's my ace," he said, grinning wider as he chewed, crumbs dusting his shirt. "Gotta keep 'em guessing—Malcolm's gonna feed me some looks, let me pop off screens. You coming again?"
"Wouldn't miss it," she said, swatting his arm with a dish towel, the snap playful but firm. "Got my shift swapped so I can yell my lungs out—better see you light 'em up, Elijah Reed, or I'm dragging you home by the ear."
"No dragging needed," he shot back, laughing soft, the sound catching as her pride sank in deep. "Gonna make it worth the hollering—Westside won't know what hit 'em."
"Better not," she teased, but her gaze softened, tracing the lines of his face. "You're pushing hard out there—I saw how you moved against Carver, all fire and grit. Just don't run yourself into the ground, baby. Those knees of yours—I worry."
The words landed like a stone, stirring the ghost of his old injury—a crack that echoed in his nightmares, a limp that shadowed his past. "I'll be good, Mom," he said, voice steady despite the twinge creeping up his legs. "Gotta stay sharp, but I'm learning—can't keep burning the midnight oil like I used to."
She nodded, sipping her coffee, fatigue tugging at her frame. "Smart boy—save it for the court Friday. I'm crashing now; those night shifts are murder. Get to school, and don't dawdle."
"Rest up," he said, softer now, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Love you."
"Love you too, baby," she called as he slipped out, the door creaking shut like a whispered prayer.
The walk to Lincoln High was a damp slog—mist slicking the pavement, kids hunched under hoods, the air sharp with wet asphalt and exhaust. Elijah's mind churned, VC totals flickering like a neon pulse: 820 from Carver, 500 spent on Catch & Shoot (Bronze), 320 left—a modest stack, but a lever to pry his game open. Deadeye taunted at 1,000 VC, 680 short, its promise of contested-shot mastery a distant star. The system's shift gnawed at him—training was dead weight now, stats frozen unless he cashed in game-earned VC. Last night's street-court run was a reflex, a junkie's fix from his old life, chasing ghosts of a knee that'd failed him. He'd pushed till his legs shook, but the system hadn't blinked—no ticks, no gains. Rest wasn't betrayal, he told himself, jaw tight—it was strategy, a shield to keep him whole for Friday.
Lunch hit the gym like a thunderclap—kids buzzing about Carver, voices ricocheting off the walls, the air thick with fries and bravado. Elijah slid into their table, Malcolm Lewis already mid-tirade, waving a fry like a scepter, Derrick Hayes lounging with a soda, his half-smile a steady anchor.
"Yo, Reed, you're a problem this season!" Malcolm crowed, grin splitting wide as he leaned over, nearly toppling Derrick's tray. "Carver was just the start—Westside's Friday, and you're gonna torch 'em! Grandma's already calling you her little sniper—says you've got MJ's fire in those quick hands."
Elijah laughed, snagging a fry from Malcolm's stash, the salt a sharp kick on his tongue. "She's hyping me up too much—Carver was a warm-up. Westside's the real test—heard their center's a tank, 6'4" and built like a brick wall."
"Tank?" Derrick rumbled, voice deep as a bassline cutting through Malcolm's hype. "More like a damn fortress—slow as hell but clogs the lane. Saw him last year, pancaked a kid flat. You'll need to juke him, bro—those legs better be fresh."
"Fresh as they get," Elijah said, smirking as he leaned back, arms crossed. "Mom's on me to save it for the game—no more late-night runs. Gonna lean on your dimes, Malcolm—set me up so I can pop some shots."
"Late-night runs?" Malcolm barked a laugh, tossing a fry that bounced off Elijah's chest. "You've been sneaking out like some hoops ninja? Man, chill—Westside's center ain't worth trashing your knees over. I'll sling you the rock, but you better not brick my assists!"
"Brick?" Elijah fired back, flicking the fry back with a grin. "I'll bury 'em—tell Grandma I'll hit 20, and she'll be screaming my name louder than yours."
"Better bring cash for that bet," Derrick said, chuckling low, sipping his soda. "You're a spark plug off that bench—Westside's bigs won't catch you if you're smart."
"Smart's the plan," Elijah said, grin softening as the banter warmed him. "No more old habits—resting up, coming in hot Friday. Their D's slow—gonna dance 'em dizzy."
"Dizzy's right," Malcolm said, slapping the table hard enough to rattle trays. "You and me, Reed—we're cooking 'em. Westside's toast—Grandma's baking you a cake if you pull it off!"
Elijah's laugh echoed, but his mind sharpened—Westside loomed, a wall to scale, and he'd need every ounce of juice.
After school, Elijah lingered in the gym, the hardwood silent save for the soft bounce of his ball between his knees. The air hung thick with sweat and rubber, bleachers empty, the ghosts of practice fading into dusk. His Carver stats flickered in his head—16 points, 7-of-10, 2-of-3 from three, 1 assist, 2 steals, 1 rebound—820 VC earned, 500 spent on Catch & Shoot, 320 left. Training was a dead end now, a system tweak that should've stopped him cold. Last night's midnight run—knees creaking, sweat pooling—was a trap he'd fallen into, a junkie's itch from his past life, chasing a grind that'd once torn him apart. That knee—snapping at 19, college hardwood turning to oil-stained concrete—haunted him, but he couldn't let it rule him. Rest wasn't surrender; it was armor, a way to peak for Westside.
"System," he muttered, voice low, the ball stilling in his hands. "You there?"
[Ding! NBA 2K System Active.]
Relief washed through him, a quiet tether. "Good. I've got 320 VC—what's on the table?"
[Current VC insufficient for new badges. Current attributes and options below:]
[Attributes]
Physical Attributes:
Strength: 37/100 (+2) [50 VC per +1]
Agility: 36/100 (+1) [50 VC per +1]
Stamina: 42/100 (+2) [50 VC per +1]
Vertical Jump: 35/100 [50 VC per +1]
Speed: 35/100 [50 VC per +1]
Basketball Attributes:
Ball Handling: 35/100 [50 VC per +1]
Passing: 35/100 [50 VC per +1]
Defense: 35/100 [50 VC per +1]
Steal: 35/100 [50 VC per +1]
Block: 25/100 [25 VC per +1]
Rebounding: 20/100 [25 VC per +1]
Post Defense: 20/100 [25 VC per +1]
Perimeter Defense: 30/100 [50 VC per +1]
Shooting:
Free Throw: 40/100 [50 VC per +1]
Midrange Shot: 34/100 [50 VC per +1]
Layup: 40/100 [50 VC per +1]
Dunk: 0/100 [N/A]
3-Point Shot: 21/100 [25 VC per +1]
Shooting Off the Dribble: 28/100 [25 VC per +1]
[Height: 5'5"]
[Growth Potential: Projected Ceiling – 5'9" | Increase to 6'0" (250 VC per inch)]
[VC Balance: 320 VC]
[Recommendation: Maximize game output against Westside—points, assists, steals accelerate VC earnings. Height increase viable with additional VC.]
Elijah exhaled, the ball bouncing once, a steady thump against the quiet. 5'5"—a speck against Westside's 6'4" titan—but 6'0" dangled like a lifeline, 250 VC per inch, 680 total to hit it. With 320, he could nudge to 5'6" and change, but it'd drain him dry, leaving nothing for badges like Deadeye (1,000 VC). His stats—35-40, raw clay—begged for games, not late-night ghosts. "Hold off," he said, decisive. "Stacking VC Friday—Westside's my vault."
[Acknowledged. Prepare for peak performance—rest enhances efficiency.]
"Rest," he murmured, standing, the ball tucked under his arm. "Yeah—breaking the cycle this time."
Dusk painted the street court in streaks of orange and bruise-purple, November 5th's mist clinging to the asphalt. Elijah dribbled slow, the leather warm against his palms, the date ticking in his mind—seven weeks since September 17th, the NBA's heartbeat syncing with his own. Last night, November 4th, the Bulls thrashed the Hornets 105-91, Jordan dropping 27 on 11-of-19, Pippen adding 21—2-0 now, the 72-10 march rolling. Tonight, the Vancouver Grizzlies debuted against the Portland Trail Blazers, Bryant "Big Country" Reeves lumbering for 14 in a 100-92 loss—a scrappy baptism for the newbies. Tomorrow, November 6th, the Raptors would host the Nets, Damon Stoudamire sparking 21 points in a 94-79 win—"Mighty Mouse" rising.
"Yo, Reed!" Malcolm's voice sliced the dusk, his lanky frame jogging up, sneakers slapping wet pavement. "Thought you'd be out here burning the midnight oil again—what's up, you good?"
Elijah laughed, spinning the ball up. "Nah, man—done with that. Old habit from a bad place—knees can't take it. Saving it for Westside Friday—their center's a damn boulder."
"Boulder?" Malcolm snorted, snatching the ball mid-bounce. "More like a mountain—6'4", slow as dirt but built like a truck. You'll need those quicks—don't trash 'em before tip-off."
"Quicks are locked," Elijah said, swiping it back with a grin. "Mom's on me—rest up, come in hot. You dishing me some looks?"
"Only if you don't clang," Malcolm teased, faking a pass then pulling back. "Grandma's got her eye on you—hit 20, and she's baking you a pie."
"Make it apple," Elijah shot back, dribbling low. "But don't flub the assist—can't have Derrick stealing my shine."
Malcolm cackled, bright and loud. "Deal—two-on-two tomorrow, daylight only. Westside's cooked."
"Bet," Elijah said, squaring up for a jumper—swish, the net snapping clean. The night closed in, cool and hushed, but his blood hummed, the system's promise a ember he'd stoke Friday—November 10th, five days off, a crucible for his rise. No more midnight runs—just rest, focus, and a game to crack wide open.