"SCRIMMAGE!" Coach Evans's voice was a roar of pure frustration. "1st-Years against the 2nd-Year B-Team! Let's see if any of you can play a real game!"
On the sidelines, Ryota Sato looked like he'd just been tasered. "WH-WHAT? Coach, now? We haven't even warmed up our... our passing muscles!"
Osamu Dazai just sighed, a deep, rattling sound of pure existential dread. "He's going to make us run. I knew this was a mistake. I should have joined the 'Go Home' club..."
Up on the balcony, Yosuke Hanamura gripped the railing, his eyes wide with manic glee. "No... way..." he whispered. "It's happening. Kenji, Ren-kun, get ready. This is the main event. This is the Super Bowl of sadness. We're about to see the worst basketball ever played by human beings. I am so excited."
The teams, if one could call them that, shambled onto the court.
1st-Years (Team Skin): Kaito Tanaka (looking like a frantic puppy), Daiki Arai (still punching himself), Riku Nakamura (looking calm), Shota Igarashi (looking terrified), and Junpei Hyuuga (looking like he was just happy to be included).
B-Team (Team Shirts): Ryota Sato (now trying to do a fancy dribble, immediately losing the ball), Osamu Dazai (who looked like he was walking to his own execution), Kohei Kimura, Naoki Chiba, and Arata Saeki.
Coach Evans looked at the two groups of players, who were staring at each other with a mix of confusion and fear. He just threw the ball onto the court. "Figure it out! Play!"
Jin Tanaka, on the A-Team sideline, just said, "Oh, no..."
The whistle blew.
The "game" began.
It was... magnificent.
It was an abstract masterpiece of incompetence.
Kaito, with his one-track mind, got the ball first. "ALRIGHT! I'M GOIN'!" he shrieked, and took off at 100 mph.
He ran straight down the court, head down, dribbling with his eyes closed.
The B-Team's "defense" consisted of Osamu Dazai, who was just standing near the free-throw line, staring at a scuff on the floor.
Kaito never saw him.
WHAM.
It was the sound of a very fast, skinny object hitting a very slow, profoundly sad object.
Kaito bounced off Osamu and they both collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs.
"OOF!" Kaito yelped.
Osamu, however... just... stayed there. He lay flat on his back, one arm over his face, and did not move. He just lay there. Like a chalk outline.
"Osamu-san! Get up! He's on your team!" Ryota yelled.
"...five more minutes..." Osamu moaned from the floor.
"THIS IS IT! THIS IS ART!" Yosuke was in tears, he was laughing so hard. He was clutching Kenji's shoulder for support. "HE TOOK HIM OUT! A SUICIDE CHARGE! TEN POINTS FOR GRYFFINDOR!"
The ball rolled loose. Ryota Sato picked it up, a gleam in his eye. "Here we go, fellas! Time for some magic!"
He saw his teammate, Arata, "open" on the wing (Arata was actually just tying his shoe). Ryota decided this was the perfect moment for the no-look, behind-the-back pass he'd been practicing in his driveway.
He spun, whipped the ball behind his back... and threw it with pinpoint accuracy directly into the bleachers, twenty feet away from any living human. The ball bounced off a folded chair with a loud CLANG.
"WHOA!" Ryota yelled. "My bad! My bad! Too much spin! You gotta be ready for that!"
"HE'S NOT EVEN LOOKING!" Yosuke was hyperventilating, wiping a tear from his eye. "HE'S BATTING A THOUSAND! HE'S THE DISASTER ARTIST!"
The 1st-years got the ball back. Daiki Arai got a rebound under the basket. "IT'S MINE!" he roared, getting hyped. He saw the hoop. He saw glory. He went up for the shot, a primal scream tearing from his throat, and swung his elbows out for power.
He nailed his own teammate, Riku Nakamura, square in the face.
Riku, the only competent player on the floor, went down, clutching his nose.
"OOMPH!"
"AND ONE!" Daiki yelled, even though he'd missed the shot and just assaulted his own teammate.
Yosuke was no longer laughing; he was just a wheezing, sobbing heap. "HE... HE ELBOWED... HE ELBOWED HIS OWN GUY! THIS ISN'T BASKETBALL! THIS IS A PUBLIC-ACCESS COMEDY SHOW! IT'S A RIOT! I LOVE THIS TEAM! I WANT TO BUY A JERSEY!"
Kenji, his face pale green, just pushed his glasses up. "This is... physically painful to watch."
The ball was inbounded again, somehow. It was passed (badly) toward Shota Igarashi, the tall, terrified giraffe. He saw the ball coming at his face, yelped, and tried to duck. The pass hit him square in the back of the head.
THWACK.
"I think... I think I'm in love," Yosuke wept. "It's all so... perfectly terrible."
Ren just stood there, his face a mask of stone.
He wasn't laughing. He wasn't smiling. He was silent.
This wasn't funny to him.
This was a 12-car pileup. This was a nightmare.
This was everything he hated. This was why he'd stopped. The chaos. The wasted energy. The stupidity. All passion, no brain, no skill, just... noise. This was the exact kind of "team" that had torn itself apart and betrayed him.
He had seen enough.
While Yosuke was still cackling over the "headshot," Ren turned his back on the court. The "game" was still happening. Osamu was, by some miracle, now sitting up.
"I'm going home," Ren said, his voice flat.
Yosuke, in mid-gasp, turned. "What? Already? Ren-kun, no! The best part is about to start! I think Ryota is going to try and dribble between his own legs! I think Osamu is actually crying! You can't leave!"
"I'll walk with you, Ishikawa-san," Kenji said, adjusting his bag. His expression was serious. "I have... had enough."