I do not own or make money from Eyeshield 21, nor The Raconteurs, nor their song, "Level." Oh. Nor Mission: Impossible.
"We're going to crush those fuckers from Deimon!" The new lineman crowed, standing on a bench and posing, hoping for more attention to egg him on.
"Get down and shower, idiot." The team captain ordered wearily, throwing a towel at his underclassman's face. These idiots were too young to know how badly they had gotten destroyed in the "practice matches" of last year.
"I don't want to," the lineman pouted, and failed to swat away the towel. "They've got a lame quarterback, and a short receiver, and a little fairy runningback." He sneered crudely. "I could probably kick his ass by sneezing at him, or showing off my amazing abs!" He joked, and pulled his practice jersey off, and whirled it over his head in an approximation of a strip-show, goaded on by the other idiot freshmen hooting and whistling and laughing.
The captain face-palmed and sighed heavily. His introspection, however, was cut short by a careful knock at the clubroom door. "Cover up, morons." He warned them, making his way over. "I don't want a teacher to get an eyeful."
"Who wouldn't want to see this?" The idiot asked rhetorically, licked a forefinger and dragged it down his now-bare chest.
The captain mentally shrugged. Whatever, let the fucktard be embarrassed.
He slid the door open apathetically not even bothering with a greeting—those bastards must be sucking out his energy, somehow—and stopped short.
"Good evening." The short, mussy-headed but neatly dressed second year greeted him amiably.
The conversation absolutely died behind the captain. Despite the idiot's big—and crude—words, no one really wanted to fuck with Eyeshield 21.
"This is just to inform you that my captain is above you in the rafters of the building recording everything you're saying and doing, in hopes you'll spill a critical strategy. Earlier, when you were on the field practicing, he was rifling through all of your papers, looking for the same." He informed them pleasantly.
"I… Uh… Why?" The captain stuttered.
Then the bomb when off. Literally.
A flash-bang grenade dropped from the ceiling, blinding and choking the team member still in the main area. The captain absently pulled the collar of his jersey over his mouth and nose, struck by the surrealism of the situation, and turned away from Deimon's runningback to watch first a rope, then a large, dark figure drop down from the ceiling, rappelling down the rope and (intentionally, it looked like) knocking the idiot first-year still standing on the bench to the ground.
"Well, I just think his tactics were a little shitty for a team we already have data on." The captain's eyes were dragged back to Sena.
"You don't have to be on the straight and narrow all the time, damn it."
The team captain watched Deimon's team captain approach them, then shoulder-check him on his way out the door to Sena's side. The blond was dressed in an all-black Mission: Impossible-esq body suit, and round, tinted goggles that seemed a little steam-punk-ish.
The runningback just smiled up at him.
"Come on." Hiruma sighed, slinging an arm around his player and dropping a kiss on the crown of his head. "You were right, nothing new. Well, except for the first-years, but they're so fucking stupid that someone has to hold their fucking dick so they can piss."
The team captain found himself nodding along with the assessment.
"Let's go." Sena suggested, "The team's gone, so I want to run drills with you tonight."
If the way Hiruma grinned at that was any indication, perhaps even the idiot had hit a moment of insight. The captain tilted his head thoughtfully. A thousand monkeys, thousand typewriters situation?
As he watched the Deimon duo walk away more important questions floated through the haze that the sheer impossibly of the situation. The only one he could recall later, though, when cleaning up the locker room and watching the whimpering first-years stagger away from the clubroom was: Where the fuck did Hiruma get a fucking grenade?