The testing area was on the second floor, laid with black rubberized flooring that cushioned every step. A technician stood waiting—glasses perched on his nose, tablet in hand, dressed in the official Roarers Training Center uniform.
"Shoes off. Step up."
Ryan planted his bare feet on the base of the stadiometer, his back pressing against the cold metal rod as the horizontal arm descended.
"Height: six-four," the technician announced.
Ryan raised an eyebrow. That was the first time he’d heard the actual stats of this new body.
Six-foot-four? That was a full two inches taller than Westbrook barefoot.
If his condition improved—if he could fully merge with Russ’s abilities—he might end up better than the original.
The wingspan measurement came next.
"Six-eleven."
Ryan blinked.
Now that was wild.
Westbrook’s wingspan was around six-eight—six-eleven was... something else.
With that kind of reach, stealing passes, contesting shots? Child’s play.
He stepped onto the Bodystat 280 body comp scanner. The machine beeped three times—their warning for outlier readings.
"One-seventy-five pounds. Four-point-one percent body fat. Clinical nutrition intervention advised." The robotic voice might as well have added before you die.
The technician frowned. "That’s light. Like, homeless-level malnourished."
Ryan gave him a lopsided grin. "Funny you say that. I am homeless."
Silence. Not a laugh, not even a smirk.
Only the quiet hiss of the HVAC unit in the far corner broke the awkward stillness.
Then came the rest—vertical leap, reach test, bench press, the works.
He’d never done these before. Hell, he didn’t even know what half the numbers meant in a formal athletic context. But standing to the side, Miles’s expression was changing.
How was a body this lean—this wiry—jumping like that? Lifting like that?
When it was all over, the technician handed a tablet to Miles, who skimmed through the data.
"Next is your medical evaluation."
They moved to the clinical wing. Urine test. Bloodwork. CT scan. X-ray. Full diagnostics.
Once the final scan was done, Miles checked his watch.
"Reports will take about thirty minutes. Come on—main practice court first."
Ryan followed Miles down to the ground floor, where the heavy soundproof doors of the main practice court loomed. With a metallic clang—thud!, they pushed through—
—and were instantly hit by the cacophony of squeaking sneakers, pounding dribbles, and barked profanities.
Coach Crawford stood dead center on the hardwood, hands on hips, barking at players mid-drill.
"Malik! That a jump shot or you sending packages?"
"Lin! Wide open and you still airballing? You allergic to the rim now?"
Ryan’s eyes swept the hardwood. Black guys, white guys, even an Asian dude.
He recognized none of them. Which made sense—the body’s former owner had cared more about scoring booze than basketball stats. The only name he knew was Marcus Bryant—forever the king, forever the legend of this city.
One by one, players stopped drilling. All eyes locked onto Ryan.
A Black guy with neon-green hair let out a whistle.
"Well damn. We taking refugees now?"
Ryan’s jaw tensed. Fury flared, fast and instinctive. He braced for the follow-up jeers, the pack laughter.
—but it never came. Just scattered coughs.
Miles leaned in, voice low. "That’s Darius. Starting point guard. Joined late last season. Talks more trash than he plays defense. Ignore him."
Ryan gave a curt nod.
"The fuck y’all gawking at? RUN IT AGAIN!" Coach Crawford’s voice detonated like a grenade.
The players scattered, drills resuming like someone hit unpause. Ball slaps, sneakers, shouting—all of it roared back to life.
Ryan followed Miles to the sideline, where Coach Crawford was waiting.
Miles handed him the tablet.
Crawford scrolled. And scrolled.
Then stopped. Looked up at Ryan, one brow lifting.
The numbers were better than expected. A lot better.
Crawford finished scanning the data, then waved a hand. "Performance testing. Let’s go."
With a sharp whistle, he signaled across the court. Staff sprang into action—within seconds, they had transformed half the hardwood into a precision testing zone.
- For the 3/4 Court Sprint, they laid out a clean sprinting lane, flanked by laser timers at both ends. A high-speed camera mounted on a tripod tracked biomechanics.
- The Lane Agility Test area was marked with fluorescent cones and court tape, mid-court synced to infrared timing gates.
A strength coach clutched a tablet, while another staffer strapped motion sensors to Ryan’s limbs. An assistant coach tapped his tablet—all systems green.
With half the court occupied, five players—including Darius, the neon-haired PG—abandoned their drills and lounged on the sideline, towels draped over their shoulders
Ryan glanced at them. Five of them. Starters, probably.
First up was the 3/4 Court Sprint.
Distance: Baseline to far free-throw line extended—75 feet (22.86m), ABA Combine standard.
"Set."
Ryan coiled at the start line. At the BEEP!, he exploded forward.
Clean start. Smooth stride. Fluid acceleration.
"3.60 seconds," one of the techs called out.
Crawford rubbed his stubble. "Not bad. For a guy who looks like a stiff breeze could snap him in half."
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw Darius fake a yawn, stretching theatrically.
Ryan smirked inwardly.
Just wait till I fill this body out. When the fusion’s complete—100% of Westbrook’s athletic code—I’ll blow through this in 2.7 flat. That clown’s gonna choke on it.
Peak Russ ran it in 2.8. And this body? It’s got better raw hardware.
Next up was the Lane Agility Test, designed to assess the player’s ability to start, change direction, and accelerate in tight spaces.
"Go!"
Ryan weaved through the cones like a blur, his steps quick and precise.
"12.99 seconds."
The moment the time was announced, a scoff came from the sideline.
Darius curled his lip, sarcastically muttering, "Speed’s pretty average."
Ryan’s eyes narrowed, shooting a glare at him.
Darius ignored him, instead turning to his Asian teammate, "If speed’s not his thing, maybe his shooting’s better. Lin, better watch your spot, a refugee might steal it."
Lin’s face turned pale, his lips twitching as a scowl spread across his face.