Chapter Text
“You’re too tense,” Zion murmurs. “Relax your shoulders, or this will hurt.”
That was the first thing Zion had said in quite a while.
Pitching Machine had barged into her workshop a day earlier, coughing out clouds of black smoke. A rushed project like her was bound to have more than a few maintenance problems, Zion knew. Who knew how long she was meant to last, anyway? Time worked differently here; the years blended into weeks. It was anyone’s guess.
Whatever Pitching Machine was – robot, zombie, or a messed-up combination of both – she had no off switch, sleep mode, or organs that allowed the use of anaesthetic. So here she sat, legs dangling off the edge of the workbench, while the Hades Tiger’s batter Zion Aliciakeyes ripped out and replaced her organs crouched behind her on the table. Nearly thirty hours had passed.
Pitching Machine winces as Zion inserts something into her back.
Looking to distract herself, she squints at the small, dirty mirror sitting across the workshop, trying to catch a glimpse of the smaller woman behind her. No luck – with Zion squatting behind her, even her gangly frame sitting on the edge of the workbench could conceal the imp from the view.
“Isn’t it a bit too dim?” Pitching Machine asks.
“The light’s for special occasions. I can see in the dark.”
“Oh.” Pitching Machine replies, letting the conversation dry up and sending the both of them back into awkward silence. The physical makeup of devils and their ilk – imps, gargoyles, oni – were unfamiliar to her. Zion told her yesterday that traditional labels like ‘devil’ felt like the infernal equivalent of describing humans as ‘primates’ – clumsy and inaccurate. No two imps were the same, Zion said, poking absentmindedly at Pitching Machine’s parts strewn around her with her screwdriver. A little like you.
What a funny thing to say. Pitching Machine sticks her tongue out at her reflection.
*****
“Pitching Machine, why’d you come here?” Zion asks, after a while.
Pitching Machine shrugs and several screws in her back loosen, falling back onto the workshop table. Plink-plink-plink. Zion lets out a small sigh.
Pitching Machine considers apologizing, but doesn’t. “There’s a lot of robot players, but not a lot of engineer ones. Most robots don’t need the fixing, but I needed some, y’know? You’re the best shot I got, doc.”
Memories of Zion’s games play in her mind, accumulated from the dozens of Tacos briefings and training camps in the past season. Images of the little imp between innings, replacing her mech’s fifth broken arm with a sixth one. The Iron Lion, stumbling across the field, leaking oil. Stretchers, bleeding, and a lot of bandages. Zion knows all about fixing broken things.
Pitching Machine laughs, and hears the plink-plink-plink of the screws hitting the table again. This time, Zion keeps her complaints to herself. Pitching Machine fights off the urge to apologise again.
“The more you move, the longer it’ll take to fix you,” Zion murmurs. The screws are inserted back into place. “The pomegranate seeds’ effects don’t last forever. I’d hate to see you get banished out of Hades and leave my work unfinished.”
The smaller woman’s voice is rather quiet, Pitching Machine realizes. Less cheerful than other people made her out to be. Perhaps I would’ve gotten along better with the past version of her, Pitching Machine thinks. The Zion people told me about was rowdier. Louder. Happier, even.
Zion hadn’t smiled much since last season, people say.
“You’re pretty lonely, aren’t you?” Pitching Machine says pointedly. She hears Zion pause behind her and regrets not shutting up.
“Sorry.” Pitching Machine relents and apologises. “I say some stupid shit sometimes.”
“It’s—”
“Just pretend I didn’t say anything. We can change topics again if you want.”
“It’s fine, really.” Zion replies. “You’re pretty odd, you know that? Yesterday you did nothing but drink apple juice boxes and talk about pitching.”
“Like I said. I’m weird. Me… being alive is weird. I don’t have a life outside of the—” She gestures to herself, feeling her chest deflate and the machinery in her guts shift around. Pitching Machine feels her chest deflate. “—well, the pitching.”
“That’s pretty much it,” she continues. “I’m Pitching Machine. I pitch, and I pitch, and I pitch.”
She hears her voice crack for the first time – a new sensation.
“Until I die.”
She sniffs. The tears were new too. She watches them drip onto the charred skin of her thighs.
“You alright?”
“Ugh. I dunno.” Pitching Machine turns to smile sadly at Zion. “I’m kinda fucked up, aren’t I?”
Zion’s hands rest on her shoulders as she sobs. Her screws fall out again. The operation’s put on hold for a few hours more, but it’s alright.
*****
“If you keep shaking the parts of out you, you’re going to die.”
So? was what Pitching Machine wanted to say, but she had promised to not sound so depressing for Zion’s sake. She keeps her mouth shut.
“You’re looking good, Pitches,” Zion continues. ”We’re almost done.”
Pitching Machine inspects herself in the mirror. Zion had re-connected the large tubes that led to her heart, and the glow from them lit up her sharp features with a sickly yellow. Had her eyes always looked this tired?
“I dunno. I think I look like dogshit,” Pitching Machine concludes. “Ugly motherfucker.”
“You’ve got some beautiful stuff in here.” Zion taps her back with a screwdriver. “You pitch beautifully too.”
It takes a while for Pitching Machine to register Zion’s words and tone. Sounds like she’s smiling, Pitching Machine thinks. Wonder what that looks like. She looks for Zion in the mirror again, but can only see her face in it.
“Thanks, doc.” Pitching Machine catches herself in the mirror — she’s smiling. Weird. “You’re very kind.”
This was true, Pitching Machine supposed. Zion tolerated her antics and supplied her with juice boxes. Perhaps she hadn’t changed that much at all, deep down.
She lets her eyes wander while Zion works, taking in the oddities in the room. The corpses of Zion’s projects line the walls. Machinery on the workbenches, moved aside to make way for this operating space. She sees herself in the mirror and runs her hand gingerly along the stitches on her cheek again – the sunrise was starting to shine though the shutters, drawing lines of pale pink across her face.
Hades is beautiful, she thinks.
“You’re nice to me,” Pitching Machine continues. “Plus your robots are cool, y’know? You work really hard, and you’re really smart.”
The whirring of power tools quietens. Zion’s stopped working behind her.
“Everyone says that. Just though you should know.” Pitching Machine croaks. “Yeah, okay, I’ll stop talking now.”
Zion continues working in silence. Eventually, Zion slots the last piece into Pitching Machine’s back. The afternoon suns stream in through the shutters.
Zion speaks.
“You’re really easy to read, you know that? Your heart’s whizzing.”
“So?” Pitching Machine replies. There it is again – that cheerful tone, she muses. Like she’s holding back a laugh.
“Nevermind,” Zion says. She laughs for the first time. “I’ll fix that for you if your pitches get easy to read. What do you want to eat? Or do you not eat at all?”
Pitching Machine replays Zion’s laugh in her head. “Something sweet.”
*****