Displaced

Chapter 37

Hector Miranda let out a contented sigh as he snuggled into the plush pillows covering the massive four poster bed. This was the life — relaxing in luxury after a long night of drinking and fucking, a pair of nines passed out on each side. It had taken him hours but he'd finally worn down each girl's stamina to the point that they fell asleep as soon as their bodies hit the bed. Not that he was complaining; a night-long orgy was one of his favorite ways to pass the time. He had to find something to fill the hours with in this world without the internet and basketball, after all.

Had it really only been a bit more than half a year since he'd ended up in this world? Just two seasons since he'd stumbled down a mountain and into the path of a patrolling Gustilian platoon? It felt like so much had happened since that fateful day. But now here he was, the rising star of the Gustilian army, with fame, fortune, and smoking hot girls climbing over each other to be the one he chose to bed each night.

A rank odor wafted into Hector's nostrils, making it abundantly clear that he reeked of sweat. Time for a bath. He grabbed several handfuls as he climbed over the still forms of tonight's conquests. Gustilian women tended towards the meatier side of the spectrum, which matched his tastes. Naked as a jaybird, he strode casually into an adjacent room, where in the center sat a large wooden tub filled with clear water.

The rudimentary nature of the bathroom served as a stark reminder of the many amenities that Scyria lacked when compared to Earth, but Hector didn't really miss his homeworld much at all. Growing up in Argentina, he'd watched as his national basketball team, built on the backs of a group of players known as the Golden Generation, changed the sport on a global level. All through his childhood he'd dreamed about being a part of the next wave of Argentinian basketball. He'd practiced and trained every day, working on his skills and understanding of the game. He'd joined every league he could and played as much as possible to get the most experience. He'd even had the luck to grow tall, standing at an impressive two meters. But when the time had come, he'd been passed over for others. Despite his skills and feel for the game, they'd told him that he was too slow, that his jump wasn't high enough, that his wingspan was too short, that he was too weak.

Unable to realize his dreams, Hector had ended up playing professionally for a second division team in the Japanese "B.League", fighting through the low pay and poor conditions in an effort to show the world his greatness. Yet every time he tried to get a spot in a more prestigious league, the spot would be filled by somebody stronger, somebody faster, somebody longer. That was when he'd realized that talent was everything on Earth. Hard work and practice meant nothing, because in the end, talent won over skill every time. It wasn't fair.

Hector grabbed a small wooden pail from the floor beside the tub and stepped into the cold water. In one smooth motion, he scooped up a pail's-worth of bathwater and poured it over his head. An invigorating chill cascaded down his bare body, washing away the sweat. Droplets of water glistened in the light of the three moons as they fell from his powerful muscles. He smiled. Nobody could say those things about him anymore. These days he could outrun a car. These days he could lift a boulder the size of a house over his head. These days he could jump over a basketball hoop with ease.

He wasn't entirely alone in his awesomeness; most people here seemed capable of some sort of minor miracle. A select few were even able to rival aspects of his physical prowess. But that was where the similarities ended. Yes, he now possessed a body that would make heroes of myths turn green with envy, but he felt that was almost a secondary feature, a byproduct of his transformation. His true gift wasn't physical prowess. It was something far better.

Hector reached for the soap, only to find it missing. He'd forgotten to grab it from the edge of the small table near the room's entrance. This presented a problem — he wanted to get fully clean, but he didn't want to get out of the tub before he was finished. Luckily, he had a solution. Hefting the empty pail in his right hand, he chucked the wooden container bottom first in the direction of the doorway, the bucket spinning in a perfect spiral. The pail caromed off of the side wall, then the back, and careened towards the table in a loose tumble. As if guided by an invisible hand, the bucket clipped the soap as it bounced off the edge of the table, knocking the soap off the counter. Still tumbling, the bucket bounced against the ground, its opening rotating up just in time to catch the falling soap before the container's remaining momentum tipped it on its side and sent it rolling in a slow, wide arc that ended just beside the tub.