I silently sneak past the guard station at the entrance to the NBA’s video archive. Inside the small structure the guard himself is a sleep, his helmet pulled over his eyes and his assault rifle dangling by its strap on the back of his chair. By doing deep packet sniffing on their unencrypted wireless communications, I have already determined the access code for the heavy metal door that stands between me and access to all of the NBA’s video footage. I enter the code, the door slides open, and with one last glance back to make sure the guard wasn’t awakened by the noise, I slip inside.
There are hundreds of thousands of reels of digital tape stacked on shelves that extend to the ceiling of the dimly lit warehouse-style room. I make my way over to the “H” section, needing just a few more seconds of footage to pad one of my highlight videos. I have almost found the shelf that I am seeking when I am interrupted by a voice behind me. “Who are you?”
The voice isn’t unfriendly, just surprised, so I answer calmly, “New guy. Just started yesterday. Hey, while you’re here, can you tell me where the Hilliard footage is? You know, that scrub guy on the Pistons?” I glance over at the young man I am addressing and smile, hoping that my friendly veneer is convincing enough.
It isn’t, I realize as he takes out a walkie-talkie. “We got a code six. Repeat, code six,” he mumbles into the receiver. Now I remember that I have grenades and weapons strapped all across my body; of course there would be no way to pretend I was a mere employee of this place.
Figuring that I at least have the upper hand in this situation, I ready my AK-47. “Just tell me where I can get some replays of Hilliard making his three pointers and nobody gets hurt.”
I am caught by surprise when the employee does a ninja flip to land behind me. I whip around and keep pointing my gun, but he’s already disappeared, probably to wait for backup to arrive. Swiveling my head side to side, I feel like an animal trapped in a cage, not knowing where the first attack will come from. Suddenly, I hear another door clang open, and the footsteps of what must be twenty men come rushing towards where I stand. The only thing I can think of to do is run back to where I first entered the archive.
As I sprint, the video screens set around the place for live video preview all come to life at once. On the screen is Adam Silver’s head. “There are no Hilliard replays. Your journey here was doomed from the beginning. Now you must be terminated,” the commissioner intones remorselessly.
Just as he says this, a group of five heavily-armed and heavily-armored soldiers come charging at me from down the aisle. Executing a ducking roll, I spray bullets into the clump of bodies. They return fire, and I only escape certain death by knocking over a heavy shelf onto them, crushing them all. The toppling of this one shelf starts a domino effect, and soon, shelves are collapsing everywhere, their priceless contents dropping to the floor. I don’t stop shooting as I run through the chaos. Sometimes I hear screams of pain, but mostly, I hear the screeching sounds of metal shelving hitting the cement floor.
Adam Silver never stops talking. “Terminate, terminate, terminate,” he chants, his voice growing redder and his facial expression becoming more and more contorted with furious rage. “Terminate, terminate, terminate!”
I finally make it back to the main entryway. I rip off my glove with my mouth and shakily punch in the access code. Hearing footsteps behind me, I blindly turn around and shoot whoever it is that thought they could sneak up. With the screams of the dying man ringing in my ears, the door finally opens and I sprint outside, back to my waiting escape helicopter. I hop inside, breathless and splattered with blood.
“How’d it go?” Darrun Hilliard asks from the pilot’s seat.
I buckle myself in and motion for him to take off. “Not bad.”