Outside Crime Scene
Mission: IDK Anymore
10:55
“Alright, here are some backup jerseys. Just… hope you’re very flexible,” a firefighter—well, technically a YMPA support agent in a firefighter uniform—said, wheeling over a metal tray.
The tray was stacked with jerseys and spare gear, sorted into four rows: small, medium, large, extra-large. Personally, looking at some of the linemen, I was pretty sure there should’ve been a 2X and maybe even a small tent section. But hey, what do I know?
“You guys can change in the auxiliary building right next door,” he continued, pointing with a clipboard. “There are bathrooms inside that shouldn’t be nearly as flooded as this one. We’ll let the other team know about the… situation.”
“Quick question,” I said, lifting a hand.
He turned. “Yeah?”
“Which team are we playing again?”
His entire face did a full system reboot.
“I—I thought your team knew that,” he stammered.
“They do,” I said. “I don’t.”
I tacked on a nervous smile to soften the stupidity. It did not help. If anything, I think I scared him more.
“I believe it’s the team from Canada, no?” he tried.
“Oh! CAMEO. Right, right, yeah—sorry,” I chuckled, nodding like my brain hadn’t just slipped on a mental banana peel.
He gave me a long, slow nod that read concerning in every language, then turned away. I moved toward the tray, grabbing at random jerseys and throwing quick glances back as he still watched me like I was a walking liability.
“Did you forget that already?” Danne hissed right behind my ear. “Come on, Bartt.”
“Things have been stressful lately, alright?” I muttered. “Leave me alone, I’m still trying to find your size.”
That last part I said a bit too quiet, which was probably for the best.
Danne shot me a hard glare and stalked away. Mike, Malachi, and Tisiah walked up to the tray a moment later.
“Medium, medium, da-da-da… heh,” Malachi murmured, rummaging through the pile before grabbing a large like we didn’t all just hear him flex lie. “Anyway, you were saying, Mikey?”
We all turned.
Mikey swallowed, looking ten times more nervous now that all eyes were on him. The flood hadn’t helped his credibility, obviously.
“Well… remember what I said before?” he asked. “About the locker room back at YMPA?”
“Yeah,” Tisiah said, snagging a jersey from the large row.
“I still think it’s gotta be someone calling the shots,” Mikey said. “A mole looking for the mole. Someone trying to steer the investigation. Shifting focus onto places that look like they have a lead, but really… don’t.”
“But who could that even be?” Tisiah asked, pulling the jersey up to his chest as if checking the size. Malachi was unusually quiet.
“You guys tell me,” Mikey said, lifting his hands.
“Well, here’s the thing,” Tisiah replied. “This little flood stunt? It might not have worked in your favor the way you think.”
“My favor?” Mikey repeated. “Favor how?”
“This was meant to throw suspicion back on Connor, right?” Tisiah asked. Mikey nodded, reluctantly. “However, as far as YMPA is concerned, suspicion is on Jamal, Maddie, and Elf more than ever.”
Mikey’s brows knotted. “How—that doesn’t even make sense. They don’t know that—”
“They know,” Tisiah cut in. “We told them. We already clocked Jamal and his crew as planning something and brought it to White. If anything happened here, they were already planning to intervene and take them out.”
“Oh, frick…” Mikey groaned, rubbing his forehead. “So they’re cooked?”
“We still have to catch the real mole in the act,” Tisiah said. “Just because Jamal does something stupid—or clever—doesn’t mean the actual mole isn’t working behind that. We need to find whoever’s actually pulling strings, while this circus is happening.”
“And how are we supposed to do that?” Malachi asked, finally speaking up.
“Rotations,” Tisiah said. “Whoever’s benched at any given time scouts around. Stadium hallways. Back entrances. Any place someone could sabotage something or contact the wrong people. We’ll keep our phones on us—linked in a group call. They’re encrypted against MSTO interference, so it should be relatively safe.”
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“‘Relatively,’” I echoed. “My favorite word.”
“If it’s someone’s turn to play,” Tisiah continued, “they come back to the bench five minutes before their rotation so they’re ready. That way we’re always cycling watchers and players.”
“Okay, hold on,” I said. “What if the mole is the one ‘scouting,’ huh? They’d have the perfect excuse to sneak off and do something.”
“Then we watch our watchers,” Tisiah said. “We can’t do nothing.”
“And why don’t we just let YMPA handle all of this?” I asked. “You know, the people literally paid to do this?”
“How would we even tell them where to look?” Mikey asked.
“And why wouldn’t they already be doing this rotation thing?” Malachi added.
We all went quiet for a moment. It was a very shared we might be dumb but we’re committed silence.
“Fair,” Mikey muttered.
After what felt like forever in a slow-moving line, I finally made it into one of the bathrooms in the auxiliary building. I exhaled like I’d just completed a pilgrimage and ducked into the nearest stall, closing the door behind me.
The new jersey stuck to my wet skin as I peeled the old one off. The floor was mostly dry, but it still smelled faintly like mop water and despair.
As I wrestled with my gear, Agent D7 chimed in my ear again.
D7 (lightly): “You excited?”
“No,” I said immediately. “I want to jump off a bridge with duct tape over my mouth. Everything feels like a mess. Like a… wet mess.”
D7: “That’s because everything is a mess. But that’s exactly why you should actually listen to Mikey. You’re trying to force the facts into a neat story. This situation is not neat.”
“Jamal targets me from the moment I start this mission,” I snapped, yanking on my pads. “He gets caught in a restricted area, we literally find a bomb—”
D7 (flat): “Fake bomb.”
“—a bomb nonetheless,” I insisted. “And once suspicion finally lands on him, he pulls something like this. Uses Mikey as an inside informant to get locker room locations. Why? To pin it all back on me. Classic lizard-snake-mole behavior. What do you mean I’m forcing it?”
D7: “I’m saying it’s the perfect ruse. Are you certain there’s nobody else? Thousands of students at your school, and you’re laser-focused on three of them. Just three.”
My hands paused mid-adjustment.
He wasn’t wrong. That annoyed me more than anything.
He could be right. But if he was right… then I had nothing. No Plan B. No other suspects. Every road I followed, every stupid lead, every suspicious corner… always circled back to Jamal and his group.
Objectively, it should’ve been him.
Subjectively, everyone seemed allergic to that conclusion.
Why?
Were they scared of him?
Did he threaten them?
Did he have some invisible leverage?
Principal Renner was new. That alone was suspicious. New principal, new access, new knowledge of the MP System. She could see all the strings behind the walls and figure out who tugged where.
So why was she so focused on getting me out of the picture? Why did it feel like everyone was either trying to shove me off the board—or use me as a pawn?
Jamal, Maddie, Elf hated me.
Principal Renner hated me.
White definitely hated me.
Mari kind of hated me.
Andre hated me.
Danne definitely hated me.
And Malachi… was only dealing with me because I did his homework.
“I… I don’t know,” I muttered finally. “I don’t. I feel like I might as well be locked in a prison cell right now. At least it’d be quiet.”
D7 (sharper now): “Alright, don’t start with that. It’s pathetic. At least this was just the locker room. Any serious suspicion on you is going to be postponed for now—they have bigger fires to put out. If we catch anyone where they shouldn’t be, doing what they shouldn’t be, you might get out of this mostly clean. Have some hope.”
I finished pulling my jersey over my head and snapped my pads into place. My wand holster felt heavier than usual.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’ll try.”
It’s funny.
Usually you’re in the stands, watching the team emerge from some dark tunnel into blinding stadium lights and roaring noise. You see them as silhouettes at first, then as real people.
This time, I was one of those silhouettes.
We were lined up in the long concrete tunnel, facing the big metal doors that separated us from the field. The air smelled like cold stone, turf, and nerves. Voices echoed strangely off the high ceiling, turning whispers into something that sounded bigger than they were.
I could feel the jittery energy rolling off the team. Some guys bounced on their toes like they were at a boxing match instead of a football game.
Wrong sport, buddy.
I glanced at Tisiah beside me. He was taking slow, deliberate inhalations, his chest rising and falling like he’d watched some mindfulness video the night before. His mouth moved silently—like he was sounding out every breath.
Cymbals might as well have been clanging inside his head.
“Tisiah.”
“Yeah, what?” he asked, voice tight.
“You’re sweating.”
“And…?” he said defensively.
“The game hasn’t even started yet.”
“It’s hot.”
“It’s ninety degrees.”
“It’s California.”
“Fair,” I conceded.
On my other side, slightly behind us, Mikey kept glancing my way every two seconds like I was a ticking bomb he’d strapped himself to.
“Look around,” I murmured. “Remember the plan. Rotations.”
“Depends who’s on the field first,” Mikey whispered back. “I have a feeling we’re benched to start. But if not… I’ll still watch. I promise.”
Then a shadow detached itself from the bright rectangle of the exit.
Coach Wallaby stepped into view, framed by sunlight pouring in from the stadium entrance.
“Alright, guys,” he said, clapping his hands once. His voice boomed through the tunnel. “This is it. Your chance. Your moment. The milestone at the start of your athletic careers here in the YMPA.”
People straightened.
He paced slowly in front of us, gaze drifting over each face. “I’ve watched you all for a long time. Some of you impressed me. Some of you worried me. Some of you made me question why I ever signed that contract…”
A couple of guys chuckled nervously.
“But there’s one thing I know for sure you all have.”
Everyone leaned in, just slightly.
Here it is, I thought. The big inspirational line. The heartwarming speech. The—
“—a complete lack of teamwork,” Coach Wallaby finished.
Silence.
An actual wave of disappointment passed through the line.
“But,” he continued, as if he hadn’t just roasted an entire generation, “I’m sure when you step onto that field, something in your mindset will finally click. Football isn’t just about who’s the strongest, or fastest, or flashiest. It’s about playing your role. Doing your job. Covering for the guy next to you.”
He stopped walking and crossed his arms.
“If there was ever a time to put aside differences—Danne and Mikey—that time is now,” he said pointedly. “It’s not about being the best player. It’s about being the best teammate. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” the group shouted.
“Alright,” he said. “Eagles on fifteen. Five, ten—”
He started counting in some bizarre rhythm, and by the time he hit the last number, everyone yelled, “EAGLES!” at the top of their lungs.
I mumbled it, but hey, I technically participated.
Who counts to fifteen like that anyway?
From somewhere beyond the tunnel, the echo of a crowd roared: “YMPA EAGLES!”
The noise hit like a physical wave.
The team surged forward, energy spiking, nerves and excitement tangling into something wild. As we moved toward the light, toward the field, toward whatever disaster or miracle was waiting…
Ascension Of The Throne[LitRPG/GunSlinger]
Edric Veyra's new reality. He only wants to survive, but trouble knocks like it's DoorDash. He soon realizes he is the fallen heir of House Veyra—once the pillars of the nation, now nothing more than a story.
System. Before he can mourn his luck, he is bombarded by cryptic memories and a weapon magically appears from thin air: a flintlock gun engraved with runes that shoots magic bullets.
"Why did House Veyra fall?"
WHAT TO EXPECT:
- ?? Weak to Strong:
- ?? 'Lite' LitRPG System w/ Minimal Stats
- ?? Emphasis on Party Dynamics (No Harem)
- ?? 1500+ words/chapter & Smooth pacing