Baltasar rushed into the coffee shop to escape the sudden downpour outside and stood for a moment in the entrance, soaking wet.

After a long and cramped plane flight, he had been yearning for some time alone and had gone for a walk, hoping to get a brief view of Seattle before the big game with the Summits tomorrow. So far, he had reached one very important conclusion:

Seattle’s weather was atrocious.

He tried drying himself off as best he could and then walked over towards the counter, shell still dripping water onto the tiled floor.

he was surprised when he caught sight of the barista. Despite his name tag reading “Hi there! Please call me Geoff!” Baltasar figured that was the very last thing he would want. He was quite possibly the thinnest camel he had ever seen, with insanely long, black hair falling straight down and a look of utter disinterest drawn upon his features. A far cry from his teammate Hassan Kamal.

“Um... one large coffee, pitch black, no sugar or anything and uh… Just that, please” he said, hoping he wasn't expected to spew out some ridiculously long and complicated order as he had heard was the norm in this city.

“That will be 3 dollars”

Baltasar handed the money and looked out through the windows at the deluge outside as Geoff prepared his order. It was a wonder the city wasn't underwater by now.

“Does it always rain this much here?”

“Oh it's raining? How terribly out of the ordinary…” came the deadpan reply.

Baltasar stared.

“Yes, yes it does. Now, here is your order. Next!” said the camel, handing over the large paper cup, his expression unchanging.

Baltasar turned to look behind him. There was no one there, and Geoff was now staring past him as if he wasn't there either. So he took the cup and his change from the counter and moved to a large cushioned seat in the Coffeeshop, more confused than annoyed.

He took a sip and felt the hot, bitter tasting liquid burn at his tongue and throat, warming him as it sunk into his armored chest. He let the brew’s heady scent fill his nostrils before taking another sip and sinking into the couch with a sigh.

Tomorrow was the big game. The game against fellow rookie center and second overall draft pick, Jake Turner. There were championship veterans like Jamie Velazquez, or the enormous polar bear, Daniel Quvianuq. This game would be difficult. More than any other.

What if I mess up?

The Huntsville mayors were so far the sole undefeated team left in the league. It was an incredible thrill. But also an incredible weight. He was starting center, after all. What if tomorrow, he cost his team their winning streak?

He took another sip.

No, I cannot think that way.

Yes, Dan Q was good. One of the best. He had followed him closely since his disastrous start as a rookie for the Dakota Bikers to where he stood now as one of the top centers in the league. But even then, he was still just another player. They all were. Worrying about it didn't help. He had to do what he always did, focus and play his heart out.

Seeking to take his mind off things, he pulled out a small book from his pocket. It was one of his favourites, and well worn from repeated readings.

“Medianoche en el Puente Peñafiel” (Midnight at Peñafiel Bridge)
By ~ Diego Torrealba

Only two people in the world owned a version of this book, himself and the author. He liked to imagine this meant the book was extremely rare and valuable, like the books his father would regularly deal with at his job, instead of… unpublished. He had argued with Diego for a long time just to convince him to print those two.

He read through his preferred passages, remembering now and again to take a sip of his coffee, until the rain finally relented and his clothes were reasonably dry again.

He got up, ready to head back out, and put the little book back into his pocket. As he did, his hand brushed against his phone. He had placed it on sleep mode for a while so as to not be disturbed. How long had it been? What if he’d gotten a message? He took out the device and quickly looked at the notifications. Nada. He sighed in relief. And then, on a whim, opened twitter. He didn't use it much, often finding it too fast paced and chaotic, but he had to admit it had its uses. This time however, a quick glance at what he saw made his brow furrow, and the more he read, the darker his expression got.

DeWitt was at it again.

Baiting Wendy Brown into yet another protracted and utterly pointless argument. And of course, Wendy had taken the bait hook, line and sinker. Escalating the situation more and more with each tweet.

Baltasar cursed. Despite being one of the Mayor’s best players and a league veteran, Wendy Brown was a belligerent loudmouth, utterly without self control or discipline.

Yet, despite all of that, and above anything else, she was also Baltasar’s teammate. And DeWitt had done this one time too many.

But trying to argue with either of the two, over twitter of all things, would be fruitless. It seemed even other players were beginning to pile in on the shouting match. He had a different idea.

He closed the twitter application and browsed the FBA’s website for a few minutes, cursing again at the tiny screen and his huge fingers. Finally, he found the number he was looking for, dialed it, and pressed the tiny rectangle to the side of his head, waiting for the call to pick up.

“Hello? I would like to speak to Miss. Murina Beaubonique about her client, Dewitt Azad Ghakhar”