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Los Angeles to Washington, D.C.
Lakers team plane
1:42 a.m.
Link slumped deeper into his leather seat, hoodie pulled low, noise-canceling headphones blasting low-volume game film.
On the laptop screen, Space Jam was rolling for the third time this season.
1996 Michael Jordan, Bugs Bunny, the Monstars — pure nostalgia fuel.
He'd watched this movie as a kid back in his old life, dreaming of hoops.
Now here he was, twenty-two, averaging 23 a night next to Kobe, with a three-year extension in his pocket and a supermodel girlfriend whose Vogue cover was about to drop.
Life was wild.
His eyes drifted shut right as MJ launched into that iconic hang-time dunk.
The screen flashed blinding white.
---
Link blinked.
He wasn't on the plane anymore.
He stood dead-center on a hand-drawn basketball court under a pastel sky.
The lines glowed like fresh crayon.
Rims looked sketched with perfect circles.
The air smelled like fresh popcorn, ink, and summer asphalt.
"Eh… what's up, doc?"
Bugs Bunny hopped right in front of him, carrot crunching, one ear flopping lazily.
Lola Bunny stretched nearby, shooting him a wink.
Daffy Duck waddled over, bill flapping. "Another human? Great. Just what we needed — more tall people stealing the spotlight!"
Tweety Bird fluttered overhead. "I tawt I taw a new pwayah!"
Before Link could process any of it, the crowd parted.
Michael Jordan walked out.
Prime 1996 MJ.
Bald head shining under cartoon lights, red Tune Squad jersey with the 23, ball spinning on one finger like gravity didn't apply.
That same calm, competitive stare that had owned the league for a decade.
Jordan stopped three feet away and sized Link up.
"You're the kid Kobe's been texting me about," MJ said, voice smooth but edged with that signature intensity. "Link. The Prophet. Nice work on Christmas. Forty-nine points, ten threes, silencing Marion and the whole Phoenix crowd. That's how you answer the haters."
Link's mouth went dry.
"Mr. Jordan… this is impossible. I was literally watching your movie on the plane five seconds ago."
Jordan bounced the ball once — perfect spin.
"Toon world doesn't do timelines. The Monstars broke out again. Stole more talent. They're bigger, faster, and they've got new powers this time. We need one more guy who can actually play — not just cartoon tricks."
He tossed the ball hard. Link caught it clean.
"You in, Prophet?"
Link spun the ball on his own finger without thinking.
The leather felt real. The System pinged faintly in his head.
[Mid-Range Master Lv2] — Active
"Hell yeah," he grinned. "Let's run it."
---
Warm-ups were pure chaos.
Bugs set ridiculous picks that stretched like rubber. Lola drained step-back threes with perfect form. Porky Pig tried (and failed) to box out.
Jordan pulled Link aside near the half-court line.
"Kobe says you've got that dog in you," MJ said quietly. "Grinding 10,000 mid-range shots in the empty gym. Taking a team-friendly deal with a player option. Dating the Vogue girl but still showing up first to practice. Respect."
Link nodded, chest tight. "Coming from you, that means everything."
Jordan smirked. "Save the compliments. Show me on the court. These Monstars don't care about your stats — they want to break you."
---
Game time.
The Monstars were monsters: seven-foot freaks with stolen NBA powers, glowing eyes, and cartoon muscles that rippled like steel cables. Their leader, a new guy called "Crush," grinned with too many teeth.
First quarter was survival.
Link guarded a Monstar who could stretch his arms like taffy.
Every time Link tried to cut, the arm extended like silly string.
But on offense?
Midway through the quarter, Jordan drove baseline, drew three defenders, then whipped a no-look pass out to Link at the right elbow.
Link caught it in triple-threat.
A Monstar lunged.
[Mid-Range Master Lv2] triggered.
Pump fake. Big man flew past.
Link stepped through, rose smooth, released at the apex.
Swish.
The toon crowd roared. Jordan jogged past and bumped fists.
"Money. That footwork — clean. You're not just a spot-up guy anymore."
Second quarter got nasty.
The Monstars started stealing toon powers. One turned invisible mid-drive. Another grew extra arms.
Link caught a steal off a lazy pass and pushed in transition.
He pulled up from three feet behind the arc — exactly like the Christmas buzzer-beater against Marion.
The ball hung forever in cartoon slow-motion.
Swish.
Tie game.
Lola slapped his back. "You shoot like you've got something to prove, rookie."
Link laughed. "Every night."
Halftime. Score even.
In the huddle, Bugs drew X's and O's on a giant carrot. Jordan looked at Link.
"You've been carrying the second option all season next to Kobe. Tonight you're the closer. When I kick it to you, shoot it like the whole league is watching."
Link nodded. The System chimed softly.
[Quick Release] + [Mid-Range Master] synergy active.
Third quarter was war.
Link took a hard screen from the Tasmanian Devil, curled off it, and drained a contested elbow jumper over two Monstars.
Then he rotated weak-side on defense, timed a jump perfectly, and pinned a Monstar's layup against the backboard — cartoon sparks flying.
Jordan watched from the other end, nodding slow.
Fourth quarter. Monstars led by six. Clock ticking.
Jordan attacked again, drew the entire defense like a black hole, then — while still in mid-air — kicked the ball behind his back to Link in the left corner.
"Prophet! Your time!"
Link caught it clean.
Three Monstars converged.
He didn't hesitate.
Rose up, body drifting forward exactly like the Christmas pull-up in Marion's face.
The ball left his fingertips with that perfect high arc.
Swish.
Tie game.
The arena lost its mind — fireworks, confetti cannons, cartoon characters crowd-surfing.
Final possession. Eight seconds left. Tied.
Jordan had the ball at the top.
He drove hard, drew four Monstars, then — suspended in impossible hang-time — threaded a laser bounce pass between legs to Link on the wing.
Link caught it.
No defender within ten feet in real basketball… but here three Monstars leaped like skyscrapers.
He pulled up anyway.
Felt the System surge.
Release.
The ball climbed higher than physics allowed, spinning with perfect backspin, scraping the cartoon sky.
Time froze.
Swish.
Buzzer.
Tune Squad wins.
The court exploded. Bugs body-slammed Lola in celebration. Daffy cried actual tears of joy. Tweety did victory laps around the rim.
Jordan walked straight to Link, chest-bumped him hard enough to rattle teeth, then pulled him into a quick, firm hug.
"That's what I'm talking about, kid. Clutch. You've got that killer instinct. Reminds me of me when I was your age."
He kept a hand on Link's shoulder, voice dropping low.
"Listen. The league's gonna test you every night. Trades, haters, injuries, pressure. But you keep grinding like you did for those 10,000 mid-range shots. You took the team-friendly deal because you believe in the bigger picture. That's rare. When you win your first ring — and you will — enjoy every single second of it. The confetti, the parade, the weight of the trophy. Don't let anyone take that from you."
Link swallowed hard.
"Meeting you… playing with you… this is the craziest, best dream I've ever had."
Jordan smirked, that famous half-smile.
"Dream? Or exactly what you needed before you walk into Verizon Center tonight and face Agent Zero? Gilbert's coming for blood. Kobe's locked in for revenge. You just go out there and be the Prophet. Drop dimes, drain shots, lock up Butler. The ring's waiting for you in the real world."
A glowing white portal opened beside half-court.
As Link stepped toward it, Jordan gave him one last fist-bump.
"See you at the top, Prophet. Tell Kobe I said keep cooking."
---
Link jolted awake.
Still on the plane.
Space Jam credits rolling on the laptop.
Kobe sat across the aisle, eyebrow raised, smirking.
"You were smiling like an idiot and mumbling 'swish' in your sleep," Kobe said. "Good dream?"
Link rubbed his face, heart still pounding, but energy surging through every vein.
He closed the laptop, looked out the window as the plane began its descent into Washington.
"Yeah," he said, voice steady. "Real good dream."
Tonight wasn't a cartoon.
Tonight was real — Verizon Center, Gilbert Arenas gunning for 60 again, Smush Parker still holding grudges, Caron Butler waiting.
But Link felt the same fire.
He was ready.