April 3rd, 11:00 PM: After Opening Day 2015, Nightmare's Clubhouse

Brian thrashed about and fell off the chair. He looked around. He must have fallen asleep in the clubhouse. Whew. What a bad dream. Dare I say, Nightmare? He checked his watch. It was 11:05. Stacy was probably waiting for him at home. He ran to his car, a classic 1996 Caprice. Simply looking at it made Brian remember those dark days, and that was precisely why he owned it - so he'd never forget.

11:20 PM: Brian's Bronx home.

Brian showered and put on clean clothes. He still smelled slightly of champagne, though. Hey, it was a big victory.

When he walked out of his bedroom, something was wrong. Stacy was sitting rather stiff in her chair looking with a deer-in-the-headlights expression at the TV.

He walked in, and seeing no reaction from her, looked at the TV.

"It is not known how the fire started at the Cathedral, but a minute before it started, Cliff Floyd was witnessed running into the burning building."

The front door slammed, jarring Stacy out of her trance. Brian was gone.

11:25: The streets of the Bronx.

The speedometer read 150 as the car lurched into the air from an incline. Brian could now see the tower of smoke emanating from the burning Cathedral. A roadblock of news vans was surrounding the stadium. Brian's Caprice screeched to a stop and he leaped over the hood of a van as sirens sounded in the background. He ran headlong into Gate C.

Smoke choked the air as Brian ran up the stairs to the top level, where the owner's boxes were. Every flight seemed like it was a mile high, especially with the thickening smoke.

Eventually Brian stumbled onto the top floor of the Cathedral. He searched through the wall of carbon and found Cliff Floyd in the owner's box. Floyd turned around.

"How'd you know I was here?"

"It was a gut feeling."

"He's back."

"Who?"

"The Boss."

"What? The Boss is dead. You know, the nuke? Kablooey?"

"No, this is a new guy. I have no clue who it is, but he means business."

"Well, what the hell are you doing here?"

"He called me, telling me he was going to set the stadium on fire. I thought I could have stopped him, but obviously, I couldn't."

"What are we going to do now?"

"Get out, I guess."

5 minutes later, Floyd and Brian staggered out of the building as firetrucks and choppers combatted the fires. When all was said and done, part of the right field grandstands had burned to the ground, and the entire structure suffered some sort of damage from the fire. Bad stuff.

April 4th, 5:00 PM: Nightmare team office in Manhattan.

"And we now understand that Bill Zoss, one of our colleagues from our New York studio, has a report for us. Bill?"

"Right here, Vince. Due to the massive fire in the Bronx last night, the New York Nightmare, who had played in the Cathedral, will be playing here at Eagles Stadium until repairs can be made. The stadium is extremely small, so the Nightmare might be falling on some tough times. Back to you."

The TV switched off.

"Damn it," Floyd mumbled to himself.

"Don't blame me. If the Goliaths were away this weekend you would have playing at David Field."

"I know you did everything in your power. My problem is with the circumstances."

"Really."

"Yes. Piazza, there's a new Boss."

"You're kidding me."

"Well, unless it was a prank call that just happened to come in before the Cathedral caught on fire..."

"----."

"My reaction exactly."

Piazza's cell phone rang. "The hell? Excuse me, I have to take this." Piazza ducked out of the office. Floyd's eyebrow raised as a long string of expletives suddenly rang out of the hallway. Piazza walked back into the office attempting to be dignified. Then he whipped out his cell phone again and shattered it against the wall.

"Somebody just bought the Goliaths."

"Why does that make you so mad?"

"Wait till you hear who bought'm."

April 4th, 7:00 PM: Eagles Stadium, home of the Nightmare's AAA team, the Edison Eagles.

Nightmare vs. Philadelphia Bells

David Wright stood up to the plate and faced the pitcher down. He had done this countless times before in the past, but this time felt different somehow. He put the bat down, readjusted his glove, and wiped at the gigantic brown stain down the front of his black and purple uniform. His 312th career stolen base. Strike one rocketed down. Wright couldn't help but glance at the scoreboard in left - no - right field. Eagles Stadium was so different from The Cathedral. In the Cathedral there were more than 150,000 screaming fans, so loud that you couldn't hear yourself think. But that was a good enviroment, well-suited for the fast-paced type of baseball the Nightmare played. The crowd kept the other team off-balance, and even intimidated umpires into calling in favor of the Nightmare lest they be booed like they never had been and never will be again.

But this was a high school stadium, with extra bleachers added on at the last moment, plus a lot of standing room to raise the capacity to a measly (and very quiet) 30,000. Wright was almost startled when he got up to bat and could actually hear his own thoughts. He whiffed clumsily at strike 2. Ball one floated by.

But ball 2 was right at his head, and thrown with no lack of velocity. Wright ducked as fast as he could The ball nicked the bill of his helmet, sending it flying off in two pieces. Wright staggered back to his feet and towards his dugout with wide eyes, now helmetless. The moment of fear turned to rage when he saw that the pitcher was laughing.

Brian was the first to leap out of the dugout, although his first thought was to restrain Wright from charging the mound. As he was running towards Wright, though, he felt his body fly out from under him and an arm across his throat. After a rough landing on his back, he glared up to see a catcher's mask looking back at him, before his teammates picked up the slack. Wright, having witnessed the clothesline, turned his attention from the pitcher to the jackass catcher. The two teams converged to the left of home plate, in front of the Nightmare's dugout. The first brawl of the season. Hooray.

April 5th, 11:00 AM: New MLB's commissioner office in Metropolis.

Piazza surveyed the sparkling city from his window. Built as a refugee camp during the war to house the countless thousands who had fled from the major cities, Metropolis, named after the famous city from DC Comics, was, of course, a massive metropolis in northern Delaware. To bring luster to the area, Piazza elected to place the New MLB's offices in this city, and it had jump-started redevelopment. It was also the home of the Metropolis Stars. Piazza turned from the window and sat down at his desk, face-to-face with Cliff Floyd.

"I'm not sure how to punish your team for what they did yesterday," Piazza opened.

"What's there to punish?" Floyd asked. "The guy beaned him, Brian came out to prevent retaliation, and ended up having his head taken off by the catcher. As far as I'm concerned, it's all on Philadelphia."

Piazza looked down at the Mets logo on his planner. How far away those days seemed...

"Listen. Floyd, I know. But the rest of the fans of the NMLB are clamoring for punishment. Therefore, as Commissioner, I have to levy a $500,000 fine on the organisation and suspend Wright for 3 days. Now, we need go on to more... Important business."

"The Goliaths?"

"Yes. Their new owner wants to implement franchise changes immediately."

"Really now? What kind of changes?"

"Major changes."

April 5th, 6:00 PM: Eagles Stadium.

Nightmare vs. Philadelphia Bells

The finale to a dramatic series which saw a 21 inning game in the season opener, followed by the Cathedral half-burning down, and then yesterday's brawl. This series was living up to the billing. The players and fans did not know it yet, but a bombshell announcement was to be made. The Nightmare were a nightmare (pun intended) for the Bells, riding on them for 15 runs and 26 hits in the first 7 innings, while Wright sat in the clubhouse fuming.

After the last Bell of the 7th inning was struck out, the teams walked out of the dugout, assuming that "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" would be sung. Instead, the temporary Jumbotron installed in left-center field flashed "IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT".

"This is Kory Bowman for ESPN, reporting that New York Goliaths team owner Lyman Strang has sold the team to an unknown bidder, for an amount approaching half a billion dollars. The new owner, who refuses to reveal himself, has already announced that the name of the team will be changed to the New York Liberators, and the team colors will be changed to red and blue... In addition, the team will be completely revamped. New roster and coaching staff. Piazza, the commissioner of the MLB, has declined to comment. More details later."

The Jumbotron blinked off, and Brian glanced at Steve, the Nightmare's manager. Good gravy.

April 6th, 12 noon: Eagles Stadium.

The team prepared to board the bus that would take them on the hour-long trip to Gotham City, Atlantic City's twin sister. The bus had to be reinforced and fitted with bulletproof glass, as Gotham wasn't exactly the town one would build a vacation home in. Brian smiled inward at the coincidence - he sat down in the same approximate seat as he had when he and the Elite stormed the streets of New York against the forces of the Organisation. His cell phone buzzed. It was Stacy.

"Yeah? What's up?"

"ESPN is on. The new owner of the Liberators is VERY interested in you."

"So? I have a no-trade clause, and Floyd wouldn't even think of dealing me anyway."

"I dunno, Brian. The guy's been very persuasive so far, and has landed other marquee players in the league."

George Steinbrenner's tactics flew through Brian's head. But none of them were free agents...

"How's he doing it?"

"They don't know. For some reason the players' teams released them and then the Liberators picked them up for big bucks."

"I'll ask Floyd about it."

Click. Wright popped out from the seat behind him.

"Problems?"

"Some shady dealing is going on with the Liberators. According to ESPN and Stacy, teams have been inexplicably releasing their star players, and the Liberators rush in with the checkbook."

Wright raised an eyebrow. "No ----. I think we're safe, though. The city would burn down if we left the team."

Brian nodded. After all, 80 percent of the New York metropolitan area was a Nightmare fan.

"I promised her I'd talk to Floyd, though. I guess I'll handle that after the game."

7 PM: Gotham City Palace.

Brian sat in the dugout and checked the news section of the scoreboard. Another marquee player mysteriously released from their team and signed by the Liberators. Now he was getting a little unnerved. He would have to talk to Floyd later, not only to assuage Stacy's worries, but his own as well.

New MLB's commissioner's office.

Floyd was fuming. "Why can't you do anything to stop this?"

Piazza could only shrug in frustration. "If it were merely trades I could block them, but you can't stop teams from releasing players. The Player's Union would throw a fit too, because these guys are single-handedly driving up the average salary for players. Any more of this and pretty soon prices around the league are going to shoot up."

"But why are the teams releasing the players? Why don't the managements keep them?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Do we even know the identity of the new owner?"

"We do know that he calls himself the Boss, but threatened to start another war if that information got out."

"So we're sitting on our hands here."

"Exactly."

"Where's the fundage coming from?"

"Hell if I know. Although, there have been a lot of wars popping up in underdeveloped nations recently… No…"

"Piazza, we need to consider all possibilities."

"True. But I don't even think somebody like this guy would do something so wretched."

"What did I just say?"

April 7th, 4:00 PM: Gotham City Palace.

Back home, the entirety of New York City was atwitter. Wright was coming off his suspension, the repairs to The Cathedral were completed enough so that the stadium was usable again, and Brian was pitching. He had registered 21 Ks in his last start, just one shy of his career high, so it was hoped that the Big Mo would keep rolling into this game. Brian strolled out to the mound amidst a hail of beer cups and boos. Rookies were unnerved by Gotham's harsh atmosphere, but Brian was a wily veteran already, even at only 27 years old. It was odd, Brian thought, that such a blue-collar atmosphere accompanied such a ritzy stadium. The Gotham Palace was an extravagant venture, located just north of Gotham's dreaded "South Side", and was adorned with much neon, with a gigantic casino building serving as the hitter's eye, a Ferris Wheel in left field, and a retractable roof that, when closed, gave the stadium the feeling of being inside a Vegas casino. It was obvious that the "haves" owned this team.

Brian stared down the Knights' leadoff hitter, their star shortstop. The name was a little familiar to Brian – Jose Reyes. In 2010, Reyes had become the first player to win a Silver Slugger based on his speed instead of his power, batting .399 with 25 triples and 146 stolen bases, the most since Hugh Nicol in the quirky 1880s era of baseball. As Brian set, Reyes winked at him and he had to step off while chuckling. In the years after the War. Reyes and Brian met via Wright and became fast friends.

Brian toed the rubber again and returned Jose's wink. The stretch, and the pitch. Comparing the tape of Brian pitching in 2005 and now, there was no comparison. The Brian of old pitched straight over-arm and couldn't top 80 mph, and relied on his off-speed pitching. Today's Brian threw sidearm with heavy velocity (hitting 100 mph at times), a 96 mph slider with plenty of break to spare, and pulled the string with deadly results.

Reyes lasered the ball perfectly down the right field line, landing on the chalk and rolling into the corner, allowing Reyes to chug the bases and slide into 3rd without a throw. Such was the style of Reyes's play. Rain was beginning to fall and play was suspended for about 10 minutes as the roof was closed. Time for the casino atmosphere, Brian thought.

Sure enough, after an inning, the air was cloudy with the smoke of cigarettes and cigars. There were smoking regulations in Gotham, but nobody bothered to enforce them. Wright, the cleanup batter, stepped to the plate amid boos and flashing from various rowdy fans. A beer bottle barely missed Wright's head, and security lazily went to secure the man, but after being slipped a twenty, they walked off as if nothing happened. Wright stepped into the box, and the pitcher got ready. Pitch one was a strike, and the umps had to call time as a porn star ran onto the field naked holding an advertisement for a website over her head. Brian ran his hand over his face. He hated playing here.

Wright, apparently sharing this sentiment, shook his head as he stepped back in and tapped his bat on home plate. The Knights pitcher fired another one, and from the look of anguish on his face, he regretted that pitch immediately. David swung mightily and did not miss, rocketing the ball to deep left center, and shattering a gigantic neon Knights logo, raining sparks and broken glass down onto the picnic area. He trotted around the bases, smiling broadly even as garbage rained down on the field. His third home run of the year.

The Nightmare won when the game was called in the 8th inning due to a gang fight outside the stadium.

April 8th, 3:00 PM: New MLB commissioner's office.

Floyd shook his head and chuckled at the report of the Nightmare game.

"Man, Piazza, why'd you ever let that city have a team?"

Piazza grinned both with guilt and concession of the point. "Well, they're devoted."

"So, did you dig anything up?"

"Only that the GMs across the league never remember actually releasing their players."

"Really?"

"Really."

April 9th, 7:00 AM: Brian's home.

Brian woke with a start. Another bad dream. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and went to hug Stacy. But she wasn't there. A panicked run around the house revealed no Stacy. He staggered back to his bedroom in a daze and discovered a note on his pillow.

"Good morning, Brian. Did your bed seem a little empty today? Don't worry. She's in VERY good hands. Sincerely, the Boss."

The police were summoned immediately, but found no fingerprints. Brian called Wright.

"She disappeared? Just like that?"

"That she did, Dave…"

"God damn."

"I know. Do you think we should let Floyd know about this?"

"I don't see any reason why not. Listen, you need to sort things out over there. I'll call Floyd and give him the story."

Click. Dial. Phone ringing.

"Yeah?" Floyd's voice asked.

"Cliff, it's Wright. Big stuff went down today at Brian house."

"Did he get laid?"

"Cliff, this is serious. Stacy was kidnapped."

"By who?"

"By the Boss."

April 10th, 4:00 PM: The Cathedral.

News of Stacy's disappearance had gotten out all over the nation, and a federal investigation was launched. From all over Brian received cards of pity and moral reinforcement as it seemed just about everybody got their ass out of a couch and went around with a flashlight looking for Stacy. Before the game, a chant of "Brian" emerged from the full house of 100,000 people (sections of the Cathedral were still unusable), as if to personally give him strength. The game this day was a classic, a 1-0 pitcher's duel against the Washington Grays, won by Wright with a walk-off shot to the Clock Tower's porch.

April 11th, 12 noon: New MLB commissioner's office.

Piazza sighed heavily. Another day, another star player moved to the Liberators. This was happening way too fast, and the fans of the other teams in the NMLB weren't too happy about all these marquee players migrating to a single team. But it had an unexpected side effect.

"So, Piazza, I want to sign Davis out of high school."

"Why do you want Davis?"

"A top prospect shortstop? I could use somebody like that on my team."

"But Davis would be better than your current shortstop."

"Exactly. A new shortstop for my team."

"Interesting. There's a rule against this, but it's so obscure and would offend so many people that I won't bother to enforce it. Congratulations, Floyd, you officially have the first female player in Major League history: Meryl Davis."