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The central column to the Tree Cage had clear windows, and the metal strips that supported its structure were so thin that they were barely noticeable. Inside the column were two elevators, which glided on rails so smoothly they almost seemed to be floating. One went up, towards the caged arenas in the sky, while the other descended, until disappeared into the dome at the base of the Tree Cage, which housed its entrance, restaurant, and official store and gift shop. Spanning across the face of the dome was a grungy logo of a tree, with cages of angry looking birds hanging from its branches.

Derrick entered his pin into the storage locker, and then walked from the pod towards the dome’s entrance, which was thronged by a steady stream of people: tall and short, young and old, but mostly male. Many of them were modded, although there was separate league for such players when it came to the Tree Cage’s tournaments. They were joking and jostling as clips of pro and amateur players making big plays flashed across the glassy surfaces on the automatic doors, before they parted to let Derrick in.

There was a short line of people waiting to use the elevator, which was in the center of the dome. To the left of the entrance was a cafe and restaurant, which was pretty classy; the contrast between the sweaty players and the wooden bistro chairs they were slouched in made for an interesting sight. To the right was the Tree Cage’s official shop. Blue, white, and orange jerseys and hoodies emblazoned with the New Shore Nighthawks logo were hung all over for the team’s fifth anniversary.

Although the Nighthawks only played at the Tree Cage once for a charity event, they were widely popular in the city, and the Tree Cage was where much of the city played. After Manhattan had been destroyed by the storm surges, city leadership decided they needed a new symbol to give hope to the people. And the Nighthawks were the ultimate championship hopefuls, who just kept winning and winning.

Yeah, I guess it has been five years. Well, might as well check it out. He was just here to kill time, after all. Derrick passed under the draped banners, and the jazzy music of the cafe faded away, replaced by a documentary narrator’s solemn voice blaring over the store’s speakers, and backed by the instrumentals to pop songs that were hot three years ago. All the screens in the shop were playing the same documentary, apparently as part of the anniversary celebration. Derrick bumped into a man as he was stepping around a table stacked with player autobiographies.

“Whoops, sorry about that.”

The man merely nodded his head and went back to looking through the books. Although customers were shoulder-to-shoulder in the store, no one raised their voice.

“Dupree is just insane. He’s passionate, and aggressive, and always has an edge, and we need that,” said the coach being interviewed in the documentary. “He almost . . . he almost reminds me of Li.”

“Ah yes,” the narrator said. “And who could forget the fallen greats of New York City: Justin Li, Dilan Gibler, Esteban Lopez, Jamal Al-Mufti, Jayson Turay. They came from many teams, some were champions, and some weren’t, but all died on the same night, in different areas of the city, as the wrath of nature descended upon our city. Li had died in his prime, after years of stunning fans with incredible comebacks and forty point games . . .”

Derrick remembered watching those games. On game nights, when he and the neighborhood kids had crowded around his parent’s restaurant’s television, sitting on the floor with boxes of takeout because there weren’t enough chairs, he could feel the energy coming out of the screen. When Justin drove up to the basket, pushing right through the middle of three big guys, and made the layup, it was like a thunderclap on the court; giants parted behind him in the wake of his penetration. And when he saw an open teammate across the field, the ball left his hands like a bullet, ricocheting off the floor and right to where it needed to be.

Just then, the orange number eighteen appeared on the edge of Derricks vision, and he whipped his head around. The replicas of the five jerseys that had been retired following their owners’ deaths were mounted in a display case in the very back. But the jersey with the number eighteen, and ‘Li’ printed above it, was hanging on a mannequin which held a basketball in one hand, and had the other over its heart.

An authentic Justin jersey with immaculate stitching and top quality fabric: Derrick’s dream since he first set foot in the ratty court near their restaurant.

A placard in front of the mannequin read ‘In Memory Of Justin Li,’ and had a short statement, thanking his mother and estate for giving their blessing to sell the jerseys on the anniversary of the Nighthawks’s founding, and stating that the proceeds would go to rebuilding efforts for the parts of old New York City that were still habitable, and the families who were impacted.

People were swiping their beacons on a stand next to the mannequin to make their purchase, and taking selfies with the display jersey.

Derrick leaned in towards the stand, afraid to look, and saw that the price read $1,000. He had never hated himself more for being broke.

The paying customers had finished with their selfies and headed towards the checkout counter to get their purchase from the store employee. After the coast was clear, Derrick felt the jersey, rubbing its fabric between his fingers. Some day, once he and his hometown were free of the White Leopards, he would save up enough to track down one of these jerseys from a collector and snag it for himself. Or maybe they’d release them again for a future anniversary? Whatever the case, he was going to going to have one, even if it took fifty years. It wasn't like he could play professionally now, so he might as well hold onto his old dream another way.

And so he passed under the draped banners once more on his way out, leaving empty-handed. Derrick rushed to make the next elevator, and squeezed in right behind some modded guys who were huddled over something. He knocked into something hard with his foot as the doors closed, and sent the closest guy stumbling into his friends.

“Whoa.”

“Sorry fellas, didn’t mean to bump into you.”

“It’s all good.”

“Move in some more, Ricky, you’re squishing me against the guy.”

“I’m trying, but my arm is too big.”

“See, didn’t we warn you about riding the fucking elevator when you were about to get that installed?”

The group of modded guys laughed uproariously, while everyone else behind them either had headphones in, or seemed not to mind the noise. They kept muttering about something as the elevator rose above the dome, and daylight streamed in through the transparent enclosure.

“Hey, buddy, maybe you can help us figure this out.”

The guy who Derrick had bumped into turned around and held out his cell phone to Derrick. He had dark, curly hair and a strong chin. Past the cell phone, the sun glinted off of his chrome colored prosthetic legs, which stuck out of his basketball shorts.

“We were trying to register for the modded tournament, but the sign up form keeps giving us an error. See? Lemme try it again.” He took his beacon out of his pocket and touched it to his phone, which, sure enough, popped up an error. “You got any clue about how to fix the error? This is my first time trying to enter a tournament here.”

Derrick didn’t have a beacon, so he had never been able to enter a Tree Cage tournament, as they had made it a requirement ever since the tournaments started. “Beats me, man. What about your friends? You guys are all modded, right?”

“Yeah, none of us could get it working. Maybe it’s only a problem with the modded tournament sign-up—” The guy looked up at Derrick, and froze for a second when he saw his face, and then continued on as if nothing had happened. “Well, whatever. We’ll just play some pick up games then.”

You had to love that about the Tree Cage: people here generally didn’t care how you looked, even if they would argue over the smallest thing when it came to basketball. That wasn’t to say they didn’t taunt Derrick about his appearance, but there was no deeper meaning behind it. It was just the lowest hanging fruit when it came to smack talk.

The elevator opened up on the lowest branch of the Tree Cage, which was more like an overlook and deck where people came to enjoy the view and relax. There was another set of four elevators that went up to the higher branches, and the modded guys got right in there with him. They stayed in the elevator, even as other players came and went, until they got to the very highest branch.

“This is your stop too, huh?” the guy Derrick had bumped into asked, as the doors opened.

“Yeah. I like the fresh air and the good view.”

“Hell yeah.”

The air was crisp, and the echoes of players yelling and jumping bounced off the chain fence of the cage that stretched two stories high. There were four courts branch, with plenty of space and benches in between them for spectators to sit and watch. A gust blew through the chains, sending a ball way past the backboard and into the fence.

“Hey, do you have a team yet? Why don’t you come play with us?”

“Mark, the fuck, did you forget? We were meeting with Adam and them.”

“Oh yeah, you’re right, you’re right, we’ve already got five,” the guy, whose name was apparently Mark, said to his friend. “Maybe some other time then. We’ll see you on the court.”

“Alright then. Have fun out there.” ‘Mark,’ huh. Derrick hadn’t met a ‘Mark’ in a long time, ever since his friend Marcus in middle school. Come to think of it, Marcus was always at Derrick’s restaurant, watching Justin Li games with him and the rest of the kids. I wonder where he is now . . . Wait, no, it couldn’t be, right?

Marcus walked off with and the rest of the modded guys towards the space between courts, his prosthetic legs actuating smoothly with each step. They looked like a quality mods, as the fine motor movements and gait seemed strong and natural. They met up with what looked like the friends who were waiting for them, and those guys were also modded.

The Marcus that Derrick knew didn’t have any leg mods, and didn’t suffer any injuries that night that Derrick had lost his arm. By the time Derrick had recovered, Marcus had already moved out of the East Coast with his family. It was a probably a coincidence.

Well, he would probably have another chance to meet Mark again. The teams rotated courts pretty frequently on this top branch; it was the culture here to keep things fresh. Derrick went to find a game that looked laid back. Nowadays, he had to play with a little less explosiveness and more finesse, so that he didn’t bang up his arm. After he had warmed up, then he could get serious.

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After chapter author notes:

I actually spent an hour looking up the difference between authentic, swingman, and replica NBA jerseys, and how much they cost, when I was doing research for this chapter. Kobe Bryant jerseys go for around $300 nowadays O_O (he did die, so I guess that’s part of the reason?)