1F

"It's like nothing we've ever faced before!"
"Ste-ve calm down, here, take chicken," the Chinaman offered. Seagal smacked the deep-fried bit out of his hand and studiously ignored the fresh round of agitated chink noises that provoked while he turned to waggle an accusatory finger at the Pres E Dent's chin. Calm as could be managed, Pres E Dent gently pushed his hand down, looking him in the eyes. "What's the problem, Steve? You scared of some little movie?"
"You know it's more than that! You know it is!" Steven was nearly shouting, "We're talking about Nolan, Prez! We could have had a straight shot to the top, beating a bunch of dumb fucking anime bullshit, but you had to go and put out that executive order of yours, and now it's all gone!"
"Not cool, man," Kazaam said, "You know he just can't help it. The man sees an opportunity and he has to take the shot."
Steven wasn't in this game to be 'cool', and he sure as hell wasn't ready for forgiveness. "Look at their team! Look! That fucking thing is still staring at us!"
Team /bmn/ had been preoccupying itself with calming their panicky goalkeep, but when he pointed it out, they couldn't help but flash quick looks behind. Seagal was telling the truth, and they all knew which 'thing' he was referring to. It cast a wide shadow in the other team's alcove, nearly half a meter taller and a quarter wider than everyone else, or at least everyone who wasn't Shaq wearing a shitty genie costume. The thing just stood there, burlap sack slung over its head, always stock still; turned to face out across the field and towards them. Most teams spent most of their time between the Group Stage and Knockouts to recoup, but the thing hadn't so much as moved in the entire week since the Group Stage ended- long after its team left, it had been standing there, always watching. They'd seen it plenty between practices, but none had dared approach.
Even the refs hadn't so much as tried to force him to leave, and that was their job. Apparently the whole reason team /bmn/ was stuck using this random stadium instead of their home field was because the staff weren't keen on forcing /bane/ to migrate.
In stark contrast, team /bane/'s tiny co-captain-slash-commentator was easily the most social member of the opposing team; he'd shown up punctually, kept throwing furtive glances to /bmn/'s alcove, and ever since the rest of their team arrived, he'd been plenty busy handing out orders. His high energy mannerism was intimidating in its own way, but the desperation with which he worked and prepared would have been almost comforting, like the opposing team was desperate and struggling to catch up, if it weren't for the resolute, apathetic, stillness. They had a hard time convincing themselves that /bane/ was thrown off its game when that big thing simply did not care who or what they were facing up against.
"I wish I weren't here," Seagal said, hysteric, though his yelling had already subsided into whimpering.
"Don't say that man," Kazaam whispered, "don't say that."
The team went quiet.
Then, the Pres E Dent stomped a foot down so hard that everyone was jarred back awake, their attention falling on him. "Steve, that's damn well enough of that out of you. You're a great director, and you have nothing to be afraid of from this dumb 'Nolan' guy!"
"Put-your-weight-on-it!" Disco Godfather chimed in, slapping Seagal on the back. He was always so chipper.
"You're right," Steven said, "You know what? You're right!"
The Pres E Dent nodded. "Of course I am son, I'm the Pres E Dent. We've got the finest line-up of," he paused for effect or for lack of adequate descriptor, "excellent gentlemen. Look at what you're doing to poor old Kazaam there!"
Shaq stopped slouching, only just realizing he'd been slouching in the first place. "I'm feeling good to go, boss, don't you worry about me,"
"and look at how pale Dracula is! Wait, that's normal, but that's besides the point. We've got a game to win, and we're sure as hell not doing it with that attitude." Stairs-chan creaked appreciatively as they rallied, ecstatic to see the team coming together.
"You're all right! Sure, we have no budget, and nobody here knows how to play this god-forsaken game, but the people cheer when we walk on the field! We've made it this far!"
"That's the spirit, Steve." The Pres E Dent said. "I mean, how bad could it be?"
Practically on queue, the singing started.
    "At-least you can talk!" The big guy was kneeling now. The majority of team /bane/ were busy with a stage of their own creation, acting out some arcane scene- the few who had no active role instead faced squarely towards team /bmn/, and they yelled the loudest and the proudest, as if they were part of a ghastly choir.
Team /bmn/'s momentum was instantly shattered by the surprise intrusion, but one man walked out of the alcove to match them- "Fuck you!" Steven screamed, "I won't be afraid of you anymore! Not your fat budgets, not your fancy-ass art-house shit!"
    "Who are you?" /bane/ shouted back, and a single booming voice cracked across the field before anyone else had a chance to respond. "It doesn't matter who we are," the shockwave said. It was so calm and collected that one could have mistaken it for whispering, no matter how loud it might have been. "What matters is our plan!"
There was another shocked silence, but another fantastic* director took center-stage. "What do you fucks have on us?" David DeCoteau shouted, "We are a legacy entirely of our own making!" Disco Godfather threw in a boogieriffic "Dat's Right!" (feat. Silver Convention) and the team rumbled enthusiastically, throwing out some cheeky little quips while they had a chance.
	Then, without so much as hesitating, the little man yanked off the kneeling thing's hood. Before they could process what they were seeing, another soundwave graced their ears. "Nobody cared who I was until I put on the mask." He said, and they could see a mask as dark as night and skill as bright as day and they knew this thing for what he was.
Whatever revolt they had started, it died without a sound. Like most silences, it was filled the old son himself, who may or may not have been a guy in a poorly made goat suit. "Do you see them, so proud?" He began, voice as smooth as a mother smothering a particularly noisy newborn, "They act out an immortal moment, but it is just one thing. Yes, a lone diamond- but you are the rough diamonds are found in, the furnace of golden tape." For all team /bmn/ may have resented being called 'the rough', they could not find it in themselves to argue; they knew it to be true, deep down.
"It's for the diamonds," Seagal's voice cracked with an entirely different emotion, "it's all been for the diamonds, you know?"
Yes, the wonders of /bane/'s grand scene were many in number and horrifyingly beautiful in execution. It was a testament to the highest caliber of acting and production any man could hope to achieve. The remainder of their pre-game performance, though, was met with an unnerving stoicism that began to make a few of the newer or less practiced actors uncomfortable, some few thin cracks forming on the diamond's surface, the impeccably rehearsed routine tarnished with nearly imperceptible mistakes.
The diamond was right to be proud, the clearest and strongest of all gems. Yet, they were also right to be uncomfortable, for what if people began to value the rough over the diamonds it produced? Worse still, what would happen if the rough began to shine brighter than any gem?
The diamond would drown in a sea of stars.