That's why when the final few minutes were counting down, continually going down, very few people knew what was going to happen. The hope that had been there earlier in the season had vanished, washed away by a foul-mouthed hurricane, at least four different scandals (only one of which was about David March - he had been caught licking a prostitute's cheek in New York City on camera), and seventeen separate unique injuries (the worst of which was David March's right hand man 'Honeyed Andy' who had broken a pelvis bone in the locker room, found naked and clutching a defensive baton covered in blood). So the hope was gone, but all of the scary freakish failure was there to see and watch and discover and stare at.
When David March moved away from his coach - his red-haired coach with a violent mustard-yellow tie and a slick business suit that had seen better days - no one suspected anything but more tears and a mental disorder.
Yet David March had once been a champion. He would ultimately fail like one.
His hand reached under a nearby bench where some of the third string players sat, moping. For a moment, the cameras caught him locking eyes with a particularly petite athlete on the opposing team: one Brandon 'Thin Man' who was best known for a large scar he had turned into a tattoo across his face, otherwise creating a larger image of his rather skinny self.
David March perked a long, lean brow at the other man, and Brandon's own eyebrows rose slightly along with the corners of his mouth. He elegantly leaned forward and nodded to him like an absolute gentleman, spidery and thin and scarred and tattooed.
The Hawks' leader returned the gesture much more strangely. His hand reemerged and produced a small contraption. Over the news networks, Americans listening and watching heard casters and anchors turning their focus from the game to David March. What is he doing? What's that in his hands? Is that a gun? Is he going to kill himself? God, that would be amazing... on live TV, in front of millions...?
Somewhere, some news anchor felt his groin perk with intense joy as his cameraman got a better shot of the item in David March's hand.
Somewhere else, an otherwise demure-natured scientist at a major, public university stared at the object from his leather couch and shot out of his seat, gaping wildly at the flatscreen TV in front of him.
David March pressed just one button.
And half the stadium he was standing in exploded in flames and metal and pieces of humanity.
It was the only national championship game to date that the leading player caused his team to default to defeat by literally killing a thousand plus individuals and at least three-fourths of the opposing team and one-third of his own.
But it was also the only national championship game to date that the leading player went down proud as hell and refusing to be defeated by mere bad circumstances. No, David March had made it thus far - he would be defeated on his own terms, none of this bad shit surrounding him, media enforced, mafia enforced, mainstream enforced.
He forced his way to the top.
He would force his way back down.
And so... he did.
