Marreese Speights had just tipped in a miss by his teammate when he felt that familiar tingling on the top of his head. He barely had time to whisper “oh no” before an unbelievable pain jolted through him. He doubled over, clutching his head, knowing that soon his cyst would begin receiving transmissions in the form of frightening alien voices and even more frightening scenes of Earthly destruction.
“What’s up, Mo? You get hit on the rebound?” asked Jamal Crawford, walking over to check on his teammate.
“Y-y-yeah. The rebound,” Marreese muttered, before being hit by a fresh stab of agony. “AAH!” Now the images had starting flashing behind his eyes – gray-green aliens torturing and dismembering his fellow man, entire metropolises ablaze with nuclear fire, the normally placid moon glowing a violent red, reflecting the tormented, scarred, and burning hellscape that Earth had become…
“You sure you good?” Jamal asked.
“No. I’m not good. They’re coming, and they’re coming soon,” Marreese whispered through clenched teeth.
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Aliens,” Marreese responded darkly. “They’ve been using the bump on my head as a kind of beacon, telling me of their plans, showing them to me.”
Jamal was visibly skeptical. “Why don’t we had over to the bench and get some Gatorade in you. The trainers got some good stuff for headaches.”
Marreese shuffled forward a few steps before stumbling to the ground, sweating and shaking. The taunting, screeching alien voices had returned. “You can never hope to stop us, Marreese!” they said. “Your teammates don’t believe you. Nobody believes you. But when we finally arrive at your pathetic planet to unleash the final ultimate chaos, and all around you is ripped apart to atoms, the blame will rest with you, Marreese.”
“NO!” Marreese shouted, writhing on the ground in pain as violent images continued to assault his vision. “Why me? Why me?”
“IT’S YOUR CYST! IT IS A PERFECT COMMUNICATION CHANNEL FOR OUR KIND!” the alien voice yelled. “EXPECT US SOON, MARREESE!”
Then, the pain subsided as quickly as it had arrived. Doc Rivers was gesturing angrily for him to get back in the huddle. Shakily getting on his feet, he weakly motioned for somebody to mop up the puddle of sweat he had left on the court, then trotted over to the rest of his teammates. “The aliens, they’re coming soon guys, they’re going to destroy all humankind unless we prepare for their advanced galactic warfare tactics.”
“Shut up with your sci-fi stories, Mo. I’m drawing up a play here,” Doc said, annoyed. But Marreese couldn’t focus on the play. Even though the alien transmission had ceased, its images continued to possess his mind.