3GR awoke on the fifty-yard line of a football field unlike any he had ever seen. The grass was an icy shade of blue, with not a blade out of place. The end zones sparkled with iridescent lettering that read, "NFL: A Game of Grace and Civility" in flowing cursive. The stands were filled with genteel spectators dressed in formal wear, sipping tea from delicate porcelain cups. A soft, classical waltz played over the stadium speakers.

He looked down at his uniform — gone were the gritty orange and brown stripes of The Snworb. Instead, he was clad in a pristine white suit with gold trim, the helmet adorned with a delicate bow tie design. His cleats were polished to a mirror shine, and they made no sound as he moved.

"What the hell is this?" 3GR muttered, his voice muffled inside the densely padded helmet.

A whistle blew. Not the sharp, commanding whistle of referees he was used to, but a delicate toot from a silver flute held by a gentleman in a powdered wig and knickerbockers.

"Quarterback Three-Gentlemanly-Reverence," the official announced, "you are hereby cordially invited to commence the play. Do mind the decorum."

A football — not the familiar brown leather, but rather a plush, pastel off-white orb — was gently handed to him by a uniformed butler standing in the backfield. The man bowed deeply, his powdered wig almost falling off.

3GR surveyed his teammates. The offensive line curtsied to the defense as they lined up. His running back, wearing a monocle, adjusted his gloves with a flourish.

"Alright, guys, time to run a QB sneak," 3GR barked. But instead of the usual nods of affirmation, his center gave him a disapproving glare.

"A sneak, my good sir?" the center huffed. "In such a refined game? I shan't be a party to such brutishness."

Before 3GR could protest, the flute-whistle blew again. The defensive line gently set their hands on the ground, not with the intensity of a charge but as though they were preparing to plant tulips.

"Well," 3GR grumbled to himself, "if no one's gonna block, I'll do it myself." He took the snap, cradling the delicate plush orb in his hands. The defenders stepped toward him with exaggerated politeness, murmuring apologies as they reached out half-heartedly to "tackle" him.

3GR's instincts kicked in. He lowered his shoulder and plowed through the line, spinning past the linebackers and hurdling the safety. The crowd gasped — not in awe, but in horror.

"Uncouth!" someone shouted.

"Barbaric!" cried another.

From the stands, a shower of china saucers rained onto the field.

When 3GR reached the end zone, an official with a powdered wig met him there, shaking his head. "I'm afraid that sort of conduct simply won't do, Quarterback Three-Gentlemanly-Reverence. There's no place for such… physicality in the sport."

3GR ripped off his helmet. "What do you mean, no place for physicality? This is football!"

The official tutted. "Oh no, my dear boy. This is The Beautiful Game of Grace and Civility. Tackles are verbal jousts, points are awarded for elegance, and all touchdowns must be accompanied by a heartfelt apology to the opposing team."

"That's insane," 3GR said, his voice rising. "Football is supposed to be tough, rough, and about winning, not... not... sipping tea and complimenting the other team's uniforms!"

A woman in the stands fainted. The crowd erupted into scandalized whispers.

The referee motioned to the scoreboard, where the words "UNSPORTING MANNERS" appeared in bold, damning letters.

"That's fifteen yards against your team," the referee announced gravely.

3GR glanced at his teammates, expecting them to rally behind him, but they merely adjusted their cravats and avoided his gaze. "Gentlemen," one of them muttered, "let's not make a scene."

~~~

Outside the cryogenic tank, Jack Hueson stood with his arms crossed, a faint glow from the machine's interface reflected in his eyes. The humming of the cryo-unit filled the sterile room, interrupted only by an occasional blip from Selene Hartwell's monitoring equipment. She sat beside him, her orange-and-brown blazer catching the dim light, a tablet in hand as she analyzed cryptic streams of quickly scrolling numbers.

Inside the tank, 3GR twitched.

"Look at him," Jack muttered, his voice a low rumble. "Guy's writhing in there like he's got a blitz coming off both edges. What's happening to him?"

Selene didn't look up. Her eyes tracked the arcs of brainwaves flickering across the screen. "He's dreaming."

"Dreaming? During cryo?" Jack frowned, rubbing his goatee. "That's not supposed to happen."

Advance Regress