And their hyped-up, almost legendary descriptions of James's abilities were spreading through Motijheel High and their social circles like, well, a highly contagious meme. They were unintentionally becoming James’s hype men, even as they were trying to compin about him and rationalize their own crushing defeat. They were, in essence, pouring high-octane fuel onto the already raging fire of rumors, specution, and increasingly wild theories. The more they tried to expin their loss, the more unbelievable James sounded.

  Salman, bless his eternally competitive soul, was still majorly, majorly salty about that mid-air interception. The sheer humiliation of it, the public, viral nature of his basketball soul being snatched from his grasp in mid-flight, was clearly still a raw, festering wound. It was like that embarrassing photo from your childhood that your retives keep bringing up at every family gathering – except this was a viral video seen by thousands.

  He was holding court with a captive audience of his friends, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, his voice dripping with a dramatic blend of frustration, indignation, and a strange, almost morbid fascination.

  “He’s not human, I’m telling you guys! Not. Human.” he decred, punctuating each word with a dramatic finger point for emphasis. “Seriously! Think about it! He’s like… like a Terminator! No, wait, worse than a Terminator! Terminators are predictable, right? You know what they’re programmed to do – eliminate targets, protect John Connor, whatever.

  This guy… he’s unpredictable! And unstoppable! It’s… it’s against the ws of nature, man! Against the ws!” He shuddered theatrically, as if he'd just glimpsed something truly terrifying on the court, something that defied all logic and reason. “It’s unnatural! I’m telling you, unnatural!”

  “Maybe he’s a robot,” one of his friends offered helpfully, trying to sound logical amidst the escating hysteria. “Like, secretly a super-advanced basketball-pying robot.”

  “Nah, robots are clunky,” another friend countered. “This guy was… fluid. Like liquid metal. Or… or like he was cheating. But you can’t cheat at real life basketball, right?”

  Lut, normally the undisputed king of sarcasm and deadpan humor within their group, was uncharacteristically subdued, almost… speechless. His usual cynical smirk, the one that could defte any infted ego in a ten-meter radius, was nowhere to be seen. Repced by genuine, wide-eyed bewilderment, a look of pure, unadulterated "WTF?". He echoed Salman’s frantic pronouncements, but with a slightly different, more stunned fvor of incredulity.

  “Think about it, guys,” he said, his voice still hushed with disbelief even hours after the game had ended. “Remember that triple-team? The one in the third quarter? We triple-teamed him! Three of us! Like, me, you, and Rahim, right? All converging on him at once, like a basketball hydra!”

  And he still scored! Through us! It’s… it’s like he was pying a different dimension of basketball, with different rules and different physics! Like we were pying normal, earth-bound basketball, and he was pying… basketball from the freaking moon! Or Mars! Something out of this world!”