WASTELAND SPACE JAM
"Shady Sands is gone."
"Flagstaff is gone"
"Diamond City is gone."
"Rivet City is gone".
Four words, four sentences, said by four people. To anyone 200 hundred years ago, these words would have had no meaning, even more so had they known the populations of each city. But to these people, their world was shattered beyond belief. The most prosperous, well defended places in the whole American Wasteland, reduced to burning atoms. The heavens rained burning lasers, destroying the capitals of the strongest factions in their home turf. Who could have commanded such fury, such technological might? On that day, Humanity realized they were not alone in these lonely stars. The Zetans, with their Planetary Strike Lasers, sent a dual message. One with fire, and one across the radios of every wastelander in America.
Busta Rhymes, Coolio, Ll Cool J & Method Man B Real - Hit 'em High (the Monstar's Anthem)
General Oliver stared down the other man at the end of the table, Legate Lanius himself. To the left of him was a scientist looking type, and to his right, a Brotherhood Elder. Each brought here in the capital of American basketball, Indiana. The Brotherhood Elder known as Lancelot broke the tense silence.
"Gentlemen, we face a crisis unlike anything humanity has ever seen, even with the nuclear apocalypse we unleashed on ourselves. We cannot at this juncture turn on each other on the slightest provocation. Hasn't there been enough bloodshed?" Frustrated leaked out of his stoic demeanor as he tried to convince them to end their vendettas.
"Tinsuit, if those damn aliens only wiped out Flagstaff, I'd have pinned a medal on each and every single one of their chests. I'm half tempted to finish what we started at Hoover Dam once and for all." It was clear from General Oliver's fanatical gleam that he was half tempted to restart the war right then and there.
"You should try, clawless bear. Then I would enlighten you on how fearsome I am in close quarters combat, where none of your tricks or deceptions would work. You lost the bulk of your forces and economy. There are still many legions throughout our territory." Legate Lanius had the lazy pose of a tiger at rest, content in the knowledge that barking dogs held no threat to him.
"Please remain civil. You are each supposed to be the representatives of the largest and most powerful nations, continent spanning organizations. We are here to find solutions. So far, from the Institute's projections, we have little to nothing to hit them. The slowness of whatever ICBMs we can locate on American soil, even if they aren't half corroded anyways, would be swatted out of the sky before they hit 20,000 feet. Even if we somehow pooled our resources together to create an anti air laser capable of hitting the ship, the atmosphere would dissipate 90% of its power before the ship would be hit." He pointed to complex mathematical equations of the holographic board.
"Even then, we would require the power of the combined output of prewar America for one month. Nor can we dig deeper, as we studied each blast zone. The penetrating force ripped into the earth, clocking in at 300 meters. All Vault-Tec facilities at their deepest are only 60-90 meters at most deep underground. You don't need to be a scientist to understand how, in other words, how fucked we far." Alan Binet grimly looked at his audience, who were only now truly understanding the situation humanity was in.
"It's settled then. We must rediscover the lost pre-war sport known as… Basketball. And according to my contacts, there's one place we can start at. In the Commonwealth far west, there is a place known as the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame. There should be a near complete guide on how to play and win. Of course with the nuclear fallout, it's very doubtful we'll find much. I will personally send two of my paladins. That's all I can spare due to the mass panic and resurgent raider attacks. For many people, it's the end of the world again." Lancelot marked the location on a holographic map the Institute scientist provided.
General Oliver an unsatisfactory noise. "I'll dig out someone suitable when I return to the Mojave. Most of our best were stationed in or around Shady when the beams hit."
Legate Lanius crossed his arms, knowing what he was about to say would cause some controversy. "I am personally going to oversee this quest myself. Caesar and our high commands are all intact and of good health. What they need is not my strength now. So I will go myself to see this done."
Oliver sneered at Lanius, distrusting every word that dripped out of his mouth. To him, Lanius was barely human, closer to a feral ghoul. Dangerous to everyone, with no capacity for trust or higher thinking. "Like hell you are, this is supposed to be a balanced outcome. You being there puts humanity itself at jeopardy."
Lanius looked at all three men, staring them down. They all knew his history, his brutality, and how he treated those under him. He slowly took off his gauntlets, and took his helmet off. What awaited them shocked those who knew of him. He had eyes bluer than the pictures of an unpolluted ocean, tightly cropped straw colored hair. A chiseled, scarred jaw. A savage scar over his eye. Half his face almost melted. "Upon the blood of the 67th tribe, upon the trees which gave us the strength and perception to fight our enemies, upon the beating heart of Caesar, I pledge no hostilities against you or your allies. The Legion cannot conquer ashes and fire. I pledge to drive out these xenos, with fire and war, deception and trickery, or this "basketball"". Silence met his words. Oliver nodded. They talked well into the night, hashing out temporary trade deals, aid convoys, transportation needs, and back up plans.
"C'mon, I want to see some hustling out there! Norg, I know you aren't slacking!" The supermutant in question was slowing down from the intense pace the ghoul was setting on their run. He sped up, fear visibly in his eyes.
"That's what I thought!" He kept pace with hulking super mutants and wastelanders alike. This sight of the motley running crew would have shocked anyone who knew about the enmity between humanity and super mutants. But to anyone living around here, Jackson Auerbach was an institution in of himself. His charisma, no bullshit attitude, and a supply of highly devoted fanatics armed with a variety of guns and lasers kept the peace for the decades and centuries after the bombs fell.
He organized farming efforts, community outreach programs, and defense building. Springfield was his unofficial fiefdom. His only demands were a steady supply of recruits to keep his most favored game alive, basketball. Many had thought it strange how fervently he kept the prewar sport alive, and stranger still those who flocked to him and shared their passion of the game to an extreme extent. From the sky, a loud droning sound over the horizon soon morphed into a vertibird, going straight towards him. Those running or otherwise engaged were about to run out and arm themselves, but he waved them down.
"Keep going those exercises in, I'll deal with this personally, myself."
"…So in essence, we came here to find out more about this prewar sport. The Zetans have already fired warning shots that have devastated our communities." The spokesperson for their group was a friendly enough fellow he thought, but far too serious. He blew only the finest Cuban cigar smoke in his face. He stepped back coughing and hacking out his lungs.
"I'll do you even better. Let me tell you who I am. Ten titles won in a row. Fifteen NBA championships. Undefeated for five years straight. Voted in as the best coach no less than seven times. If anyone is going to whip your people into shape, there's no one else but me. There's only so much a book or a holotape can teach you. So, what do you say?"
The brave band of American wastelanders looked at each other, weighing the pros and cons. The life of Earth depended on their next answer. Finally, Lanius himself delivered it. Going on one knee, facing the floor, he gave his plea. "Teach us, honored Elder."
A ghoul coach who's been there with basketball, done that with basketball, and got the trophy for basketball.
The most fearsome and fantical of the entire Legion Legate Lanius himself. Joined for the personal glory of saving humanity, and because he trusted no one else in the Legion to do it properly.
Jeremy Watson, a cornfed NCR hero that has less brain cells than radroach. Was asked to join the team because no one else would volunteer. Volunteers for everything.
X6-88, a third generation courser synth usually meant for the most extreme fighting, now a veritable master of basketball. Doesn't work well in teams.
Jordan Michael, from Vault 23, the sports vault. Was the best champion in ALL inter-vault sports competitions for five years straight. Trying to convince the team about names and uniforms.
And finally, an assaultron reprogrammed to play basketball. There weren't many options left, so the Brotherhood rigged up a program and slapped a Brotherhood symbol on its front and back.
This is what the fate of humanity rested on. These five misfits representing the best hope for humanity.
"I will not, and cannot think of helping you cretins in any usage of BALLS, or TESICLES, or any rounded sports based instruments! I cannot in good faith help nasty JOCKS who bully innocent geniuses. Not that I was ever bullied!" Dr. Borous was adamant in his dislike and refusal to help them.
Dala turned on him, surprisingly. They were both close, for many of their experiments overlapped in the biological fields.
"Dr. Borous, the soft and squishy teddy bears are no match for the roughness of the Zetan beings. I would not like to see their insides become outsides." Her soft voice held an undertone of steel, understanding to some extent the threat the Zetans presented. Of course… "And they are asking for upgrades. I would like to touch and see their insides as I rearrange them in optimal and efficient ways." And there it was, the true reason. Their bickering was at a standstill. Dr. Klein and Borous were outnumbered by Dala, 0, and 8. Unfortunately, Klein claimed his status as head researcher gave him an extra vote. With this infallible logic, they were deadlocked.
Until of course, they were interrupted by the DASTARDLY Dr. Mobius!
"THINK TANK! It is I, the DASTARDLY Dr. Mobius! I have laid siege to your false tower of SCIENCE with an ARMY of robo scorpions and Lobotomites! Tremble before my might! In a single wave, I can crush you and take your sciences for my own!" Dr. Mobius loudly thundered his words, seeking to peacefully overtake them with implied violence and brain draining.
"Of course, you have one course of salvation! Perform the augmentations WITHOUT removing their brains, and I will leave you in peace… FOR ONE WEEK!"
With an offer like that, how could they not take it? Consensus reached, the Think Tank eyed the intrepid dream team.
"If we are to support the usage of PLAYING WITH BALLS, we ought to do it right! I, DR. BOROUS, will create such wonders for the sake of all Mankind! And finally, my revenge on Richie 'Ball-Lover' Marcus will be complete!" Dr Borous enthusiastically yelled. The plan was slowly coming to fruition.
_
After much deliberation, focus group testing, and one failed bombing, they had decided on a name and symbol. "The Becquerel Brotherhood of Bullish Bears". It depicted a knight of yore with a brotherhood sigil on his back jersey, on a nuclear powered motorcycle that had the "Made in the Institute" symbol, with a bear on one side and a bull on the other, keeping pace with the 'cycle.
Silence met both the name and symbol that would be on their radioactive green uniforms. This was the closest thing they had to consensus. The time was almost up for the final game.
The stage was set. Madison Square Garden was cleaned up of raider groups that had lived there. With the "aid" of the Zetans, the arena looked nothing like it had centuries ago, or even years ago.
The team looked on at wonder. Worthies from all over the Wasteland had arrived in droves. Brahmin Barons rubbed shoulders with wealthy arms merchants, NCR politicians uncomfortable being near Legion consuls, civilian rulers of Legion territory. Brotherhood Elders talking amicably to Institute scientists. What little survivors of the Zetan attacks were here, given respectful distance. Across New Vegas and everywhere else, bookies were taking bets, gambling on the fate of Earth itself.
Anyone who was anyone was here, radio jockeys setting up independent handheld stations in the nosebleeds. What pre-war cameras there were, linked the visual aspect across the broken wasteland. Only one in a hundred communities could even use their televisions, and those places were packed to infinity and beyond. A majority of communities relied on radios across the bars, restaurants, and homes from East to West.
Then, the Zetans arrived. Up in the sky, a flying saucer menacingly dropped, his size becoming greater and greater until it was above the stadium. In a flash of neon blue and white light arrived the star sent team. Boos heralded their arrival. Two humans were escorted to the announcers box as narrators to the event. A soldier in white armor and surprisingly a little girl in Captain Cosmo sidekick armor. The soldier looked grim and scared and had to be persuaded with shock batons to keep moving. The little girl looked ecstatic, like all her dreams came true.
An Abomination, looking almost nothing like a Zetan but strangely familiar to the audience. A short Zetan who looked very happy to be there. A support drone with long arms, pincers on the end. Instead of floating, it had giddy-up buttercup horse legs welded on. A… octopus? Slivering out with wet mucus noises, it used four of its legs to move, with the other four as arms. It had several mechanical implants sticking out of its head, and wide intelligent eyes taking in everything around it, colors flashing rapidly with fear or excitement.
And finally, the last member of Star Squad arrived. A tall human being? His head was bald, his legs were long, his arms looked strong, and he was undeniably an unaltered human. He shivered, icicles fresh off his eyelashes. For some incompletely unknown reason, in some time in the past, the Zetans had frozen an NBA all star player. With this kind of line up, things went from bad to worse.
This disaster of a game was heralded by Elliot and Sally. Michael Buffer - Let's Get Ready To Rumble!
Coach Auerbach yelled and broke a clipboard over his knee, grunting in pain as he was reminded of how bad his ghoul knees were. They were down 70-100, and the game was almost 3/4ths over. He yelled that his team needed a break, and the bloody, bruised, and demoralized team followed him into the locker rooms. Lanius looked the worst off, being the point guard defense and general body blocker. The assaultron, redubbed "Sir Palomides", was leaking hydraulic fluids, Jordan's uniform was nearly torn to shreds, having been mostly dealing with the sole Zetan player. Jeremy was as upbeat as ever, his enthusiasm and bedrock of stability supporting his team. X6-88 was unruffled and unharmed, but was burdened down by the shame he had brought on himself by failing to work with his team, leading to failed plays. They looked up at the coach, who was fuming in anger.
"Is this my last legacy, my last game? Ending in the destruction of humanity in the most important game of basketball of all time? Is this where our story ends?" Towards the end, he was all out shouting.
"What can men do against such skill and passion? They're outplaying us, outlasting us, and outsmarting us!" Sir Palomides drama and anger routines were working in overdrive, echoing the feelings of much of the team. "It's over."
"No, its not over." Lanius walked over to the frustrated coach, leaning against the sink for support.
"We have had our differences. For the Legion, there were things we did not, and could not accept. The profligate ways, their self indulgence, and hedonistic ways. But there is no way out, except for one. The serum. It is clear to me now that victory must be won at any cost, even to dishonor Mars himself."
Coach Auerbach looked at him. Like many sports before the Great War, the idea of a clean sport was a dead ideal. Chemming up was the norm, no longer taboo as the government itself made sure there was a blind eye to their activities. People needed bread, circuses, and heroes. No need for the public to be demoralized by the widespread doping.
He went to the locker marked with a skull and crossbones. Inside were 5 technicolor syringes.
For the purely humans, their chem cocktails were a high dose of Med-X, UltraJet, Psycho, Mentants, X-cell, and Buffout. The final secret sauce was purified cloud and mutagenic substances introduced by the Think Tank. The synergistic effects would exponentially increase all facilities and skills of the user, but also change them on a cellular and genetic level. For five minutes, they would be gods amongst men. For the non-human members, their syringes contained a mix of nanomachines, high intensity battery acid, unstable electrons, and straight nuclear fuel.
For all five, this would be the point of no return. Not just ethically, but physically. The potent serums would unshackle them from flesh or metal, beyond orders or directives. They would be Übermensch, justifying to the aliens why humanity deserves to exist. They took the injections, and all at once, slammed it into their hearts(or thermocore).
It was the game of the decade, of the century, of the millennia. For decades after, those who had watched it or heard it, rated it as one of their proudest recollections. Humanity had pulled victory from the jaws of defeat, and with it a new age of renewal for humanity. Lost tribes, lost nations, all didn't matter in the face of a single, unifying threat. Peace reigned as humanity realized that their petty disputes weren't worth the effort or time.
Basketball communities sprung up overnight, the game for humanity's survival rocketing it up extremes. The conquering heroes however, faced their own consequences for their actions. Their forms were unlike humanity or synthetic life. They were almost… MONSTARS.
They learned to live with these eternal forms, waiting and watching. For they all knew one, immutable fact. They'll be back for a rematch. And when they came, they'd be ready. Practicing day and night, perfecting their foul shots, rebounds, tricks and so many other important basketball skills.
Space Jam Theme Song
