The plan was simple, albeit cruel. After managing to convince a resident advisor with a bag of weed that the team needed the freshman’s full name, the defense set up its trap. Over email (and with the entire defense BCC’d so that they could see he was sticking to the plan), Brandon stated that he had a change of heart, that they should get to know each other, and that he was new to this whole thing but he was willing to try everything. They agreed that they would meet for a drink after the next game, where the rest of the Defense would be waiting to tie up the “queer” and give him a hazing -- something involving making the kid walk home naked with shaving cream slathered on his butt.
What the team didn’t know was that Brandon was planning on sabotaging the whole thing. He played his part – he sent the emails and BCC’d the team. But after each email, from a private email account, he would send Chester a warning to stay away, telling him of the whole plan, and to just play along long enough over email until they all finally got tired of the ruse and gave up. Brandon was starting to get nervous, however, as none of his private emails were being responded to. He had to assume Chester was receiving them, but as gameday was closing in, Brandon was growing more restless.
The game came and went. The team won, though if you asked him, Brandon couldn’t tell you the score. His mind was on tonight, and he could tell from the conversation in the locker room that he wasn’t the only one. One of the linemen had come up to Brandon to show him the shaving cream, smearing a little on his hand to demonstrate how it will look. Others were laughing and plotting for future hazing – as if there would be another chance. One would be enough, and Brandon doubted he’d ever hear from or see the poor kid again.
The coach came in and gave his gameday speech. Brandon tuned it out, quietly slipping out of his pads and into his regular hoody and jeans combo. After the coaches left, the rest of the team started to break up, half of them retreating to the showers while the rest started changed out of their clothes. Because it is a college of some respect, the locker room is closed off to reporters or outside personnel after the coach’s speech. The wide-swinging doors are always locked from the inside by one of the teammates and players would file out at their leisure by pushing the swinging door, then letting it close and lock automatically behind them.
During the game, the locker room would also be closed off to outside personnel, which is why Brandon was looking curiously at a box that had been haphazardly left under one of the sprawling benches. It wasn’t a sports equipment bag, nor was it a backpack. Rather, it was a silver metallic case with a black handle. The cornerback that sat next to him was already in the shower, but his bag was in the open and clearly packed. To the left was a fire extinguisher. The possibilities were becoming slim in a hurry.
With a nudge from his foot, Brandon gently kicked the case out into the open and started undoing the latches. Aware that this wasn’t probably the brightest idea, but too curious to turn back now before someone else noticed and had the same idea, Brandon slowly tilted the latch open. Inside, much to his surprise was the same strange but unidentifiable object the three freshmen were all fawning over at the cafeteria just two days ago.
Only this time it seemed to be turned on.
The device started making a hum that it wasn’t making before, giving Brandon the impression that it was spooling up some sort of turbine. In fact, the spark plug-like things were rotating in a circle and were starting to emit some sort of bluish-green electricity. As Brandon was getting ready to slap the lid shut on it, Trey, who had been in the middle of changing and now only wore a jock strap, was standing over Brandon and the box and had a similarly curious look to him.
“The hell is that?” demanded Trey as he reached down to poke a finger at it. And like a kid learning not to touch a red-hot burner for the first time, a spark snuck out and zapped Trey’s hand, which he instinctively yanked backwards and shook in the air.
The pain dissipated quickly as Brandon gave a concerned, though mildly scornful look back at the other jock. “How should I know? It’s not mine.” Whatever it was, it was starting to get angry and quick. Red light beams started shooting out in random patterns, bouncing off the walls as if they were made of a mirrored surface. It was starting to look like a New Years rave in the locker room as different colored beams continued to fire in a indiscriminate pattern. The bouncing rays of light even made it into the shower, where some of the football players could be heard yelping in surprise and shouting at the rest of the crew to hold the party until they were out.
And that’s when everything went to hell. A bright light gleamed from the core of the device as the spark-plug like extensions started fanning out wider. The light grew too bright to look at directly. The shouting was getting louder – at least, it should have been. Everyone was getting more excited but nobody could see what was going on. The entire room was aglow with that radiant light; eyes were stinging yet everything was eerily quiet. And with a snap, the device turned off.
Brandon couldn’t see for a while after that. He thought he heard a knock at the door, but it was so distant and faint that it sounded more like a rumble from an approaching storm. As everything started to get back into focus, the horrible reality of the effects the device had became terribly apparent. Like something out of a dream, Brandon was no longer standing in a cramped locker room. He was standing instead what looked to be a tall warehouse, but with the same familiar features of the locker room. As his eyes dropped back down, everything was still in their familiar places, except in much greater detail and in much larger proportion.
He wasn’t the only one. Dozens of confused football players were jogging across the floor of the now-enormous locker room, all of them starting to gather in tiny groups. Brandon tried to shout into the loud confusion to calm everyone down, but it was no use. Mass hysteria had started to build. Off in the distance he could hear what sounded like a locomotive slamming into a series of rail cars to link up. As he turned his attention to see what was generating that sound, Brandon’s jaw dropped. Standing in full motocross gear, as if he’d just suited up for a race, were the features of someone Brandon couldn’t get out of his head.
Chester had arrived.
With his riding helmet in his gloved hand, a cool but confident grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, Chester slowly strode in. How he got in was anybody’s guess, but one thing WAS clear – he got Brandon’s emails. There would be no rendezvous at the bar. The circle of jocks nearest the door – some of the skilled offensive players, Brandon could see – was starting to back away from the looming giant as he strode slowly and with purpose towards them. Each of those armored boot-steps thudded and echoed in Brandon’s ears. In just a couple steps he had made it to them. Judging by the height of those boots, each of those half-clothed jocks couldn’t be more than two or three inches tall. One – Mack, who apparently hadn’t been in on the whole charade that the defense was and had no idea who Chester could be – was valiantly waving his arms to try and get Chester’s attention. He was babbling something – probably asking for help – and it was clear Chester’s bright green eyes were picking up the efforts. Everyone else was slowly backing away from Mack, each of them perhaps having heard rumors. That didn’t stop Mack, though.
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