I wish you would write a fanfic about Gabriel Reyes getting way too worked up about sports.
There was a moment that he’d never forgotten, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, a tightening of his heart, as he’d dropped into a hot zone ten years ago and realized that the grey beneath him was not, in fact, a paved street, but a churning mass of armed and furious omnic droids.  The feeling that a problem already too big to handle just was actually a thousand times worse all along and you were far, far too late in realizing it.
“What…the hell are you wearing?  Did you join the mariachi club of the damned or something?” he asked slowly.
“Haven’t you ever been to a ball game before?” Reyes replied.  He was grinning.  The death-mask that covered the better part of his face made the expression ghoulish.
“You look like something outta one of those old Day of the Dead flicks,” Morrison said with a shake of his head.  “What’s this gotta do with a ball game?”  But Reyes just stepped past him.
“C’mon, Morrison.  We gotta get going or we’re gonna get shit parking.”
“You’re kidding.  How are you gonna drive with-”
“And turn that thing inside out.”
“-that hat…what’s wrong with a Sox jersey?  You told me to wear black and white!  This is the only thing I’ve got!”
“I know.  Turn it inside out.”
————————–
The last time the ground had shook like this, he’d been under aerial bombardment.
Eighty thousand people were on their feet and roaring.  Most wore team colors - well, yeah - but he hadn’t been prepared for the gear.  Men wore helmets, pauldrons, gauntlets and chains and freaking sabotons.  It was all fake; plastic or styrofoam, but sabotons.  Freaking sabotons.  People wore skull-masks and skull-paint and horned helmets and tricorn hats and eyepatches.  Three rows up was a man wearing the headdress of an ancient pharaoh, wielding a snake-headed staff.  Amari would love that guy. Two rows back a guy in a gorilla mask was directing wave after wave of cheers from the people further up by throwing up a pair of hands hidden by ape-like mitts.  The massed hordes of the undead mingled with pirates, viking raiders, mongol warriors, and Darth Vader.
And beside him, the head of Blackwatch was on his feet and furiously twanging a guitar he’d assured security was entirely fake but sounded pretty damn real in a heart-pounding beat that was made all the worse as people nearby stomped their feet in time with the music.
It was like the archway had been a gate to another time - stepping from the 2060s where vendors sold cheap soy-dogs and sausages and lite beer beneath neon lighting to a colosseum of stone and stand - except for the gigantic jumbotron that currently showed an old, scratchy recording of a man, speakers transmitting his voice through the air with more decibels than a jet plane - “when you have great coaches - then after you have great coaches you get great players…you have a great organization, you tell them one thing!”
Every single voice in the place, it seemed, roared along with the last three words- “JUST WIN, BABY!”
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” a voice boomed out from the stadium speakers.  “FORTY YEARS AGO, A GREAT FOOTBALL TEAM WAS PURCHASED BY THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF LAS VEGAS.”
Even in the midst of violent revolution, Jack Morrison had never seen a crowd turn so fast. Â The cheers turned to ferocious booing mid-breath. Â Weapons were brandished. Â The few people that had started to sit back down had leapt back up, howling in outrage. Â He almost dove for cover, half-expecting people to charge the field. Â Beside him, Reyes was snarling something that Morrison lost in the tumult, but the single-digit salute was unmistakable.
“Jesus, Gabe, calm down,” he murmured as he leaned over, already silently apologizing for the blasphemy.
The wide-brimmed hat swung about and Jack Morrison was suddenly being stared down by a silver-plated skull.  “We never forgive, Morrison.  We never forget,” growled something that was less like Gabriel Reyes and more like some atavistic spirit of vengeance.
“AND NOW, CELEBRATING THE THIRTY-YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THEIR RETURN HOME, YOUR! OAKLAND! RAIDEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRSSS!”
The air shook.  The stands shook.  The beer in the plastic cups shook. And Jack Morrison wished he’d had the foresight to bring a medic.  At the very least he was never betting on a pool game again.
It was a decent game, he said later. Â Good guys won.
