Chapter Text
You wake up.
And like every morning when you do, you wish you could go back to sleeping your days away like you used to. But your body's grown to reject the long days of sleeping so much longer than necessary and wills you awake without your permission. You roll over and look at the time on your digital clock. The only shred of light that permeates your darkened room, kept that way by the thick, pitch black curtains that shroud your window.
The time is almost 10 in the morning, so a little later than you normally rise. But well, it's not like you ever have anything pressing to do in the morning. Or the afternoon. Or the evening. So time is practically irrelevant. You roll over again and force yourself out of bed, and right onto the floor. Purposefully, because the sudden impact and the jolt help bring you to clarity and alertness quicker. The pain reminds your body that it's alive, or whatever the saying is. Which is exactly what you need because you feel pretty dead. Your soul died years ago, your body is just strangely unaware of the fact. So your heart continues beating and your brain continues sending signals in order to get you to proceed with the empty objective called living.
You push yourself off the ground and stand up, fully alert now that your body's been kickstarted like a faulty generator. You drag yourself over to the bathroom near your room so that you can take care of your daily necessities. As you finish up, you glance at the mirror and catch a glimpse of this disheveled monstrosity glancing back at you. Of course, it's only you, but seeing your reflection constantly gives you this "who the fuck are you" kind of feeling. Granted, it's not like you're vastly different, these past two years you haven't changed physically. Your hair's grown, and aside from the wild bedhead it's long enough to cover your eyes and damn near blind you. But your eyes. The look in your eyes are why you seem so foreign to yourself. Because it's so disconcerting that those eyes that once held so much hope and joy, can now look so... Empty.
You head back to your room to dress in your simple everyday outfit. After you're dressed, you reach between your bed and your nightstand and grab the only thing you'll ever hold affection for ever again. Your DeMari 300 baseball bat. Your dad bought it for your sixteenth birthday. You were going to use this to make him proud. You were, but. Can't be done anymore.
You love baseball. Or at least you did. Maybe you still do, considering you still pick up your bat, and walk yourself down to that old batting center almost every day. But your reasons for doing so aren't so clear anymore. Because you enjoy the game? Because it's all you have left? Maybe you'd give it up if you could, but you can't seem to. Following those long months in your vegatative state, when your body decided that it couldn't take lying in bed another day, you immediately got up and went back to that batting center. It felt right, but not fulfilling. Like you could only do this because you had to and not because you had any true desire to. And yet you still do. Autonomously.
And you engage in that autonomy again as you walk out of your room and down the stairs. Toward the front door, you hang a right and step into the kitchen. Walking to the fridge, you even question yourself why you constantly do this part. You throw open the fridge door to find. A whole lot of nothing. A bunch of stuff went bad at one point and you threw it right out, but never stopped to restock any of it. So the fridge is practically barren. Even though at one point it was stocked full of things you loved, and some things you don't. Someone might think you were being neglected looking at this, but you're not. Well, if anything you're neglecting yourself. But you never really learned to cook anyway, and you don't have the drive to do so, so you'll just stop and get something on the way back from the center whenever you're hungry. But this act of opening an empty fridge is just an act that you used to do back when things were right and you could take whatever you wanted whenever you pleased. So you emulate it in an attempt to trick yourself into thinking that things are alright. Even though you know they aren't.
Back on task, you close the fridge and walk up to your front door. You reach over and grab the door keys, and hold your gaze on the large mural of photos set on the wall near the door. Pictures of your parents from varying stages of their relationship, the oldest ones set higher up, and the more recent ones reaching the bottom. Right beneath you is the last picture, one of you and them, some time right before your highschool graduation two years ago.
"I'm heading out." you say in departure to the mural of your parents.
You walk out the door, lock it behind you and make your way down the road, walking from your pleasant neighborhood toward the more urban part of your city.
If only your city itself was as pleasant as your neighborhood. Well, San Vanargrand isn't the worst place to live. But it definitely isn't the best either. It's got its fair share of good and bad, although the bad has been piling up a lot more recently. Of course, that's got nothing to do with you, you are a man of singular purpose, treading the exact same roads day in and day out, rarely deviating from your predetermined course. The goings on in the rest of the city are as far from your mind as the stars beyond the sky. You walk the path you've walked countless times, passing the sights you've long since grown desensitized to. The few homeless, the graffiti'd buildings, the bits of trash. What city doesn't have these things? Although, once again, it seems that it's gotten worse over the years. You pause at the stoplight and wait for the crosswalk light to change. A police car passes by your side of the road, and you could almost swear that the officer was staring at you a little deeper than he should have been. But he continues on, so maybe you imagined it. Could've just been because you're walking through town with a baseball bat over your shoulder, but oh well.. Even though their presence has increased a tiny bit, they still never seem to be where they should. Like, if they were more in force, even back then, then maybe... But you've long since given up on those thoughts. The light turns, so you cross the street.
Thirty minutes since you've left and you come up on Old Man Lou's Batting Center. This place has been around for a long time, and word has it the owner, Old Man Lou himself, has been around even longer. You've met him when you first started coming here when you were just a kid, and you've even seen him a few times recently, taking swings inside, even though he should be long past the age where such physical feats were possible. You almost think he's immortal sometimes. You open the front door and prepare to greet the only staff member who works in this place, when loud, annoying laughter startles you from the far right side of the center. No one but you comes to this place. Literally, you're practically the last surviving patron of this batting center, so it's surprising that anyone would actually be here enjoying themselves. Curiosity forces your gaze in the direction of the commotion.
"What the fuck." spills out of your mouth unconsciously.
A dark, almost murky green assaults your vision immediately. Green bandanas mostly. Wrapped around necks, arms, ankles. The obvious and disgusting colors of one of San Vanargrands infamous groups of wannabe gangsters, 6th Street. These worthless idiots, along with several other groups are the reason San Vanargrand is becoming such a shitshow. These ones are like a bunch of highschool bullies that refused to let go of their highschool days, so they took to bullying others out in the city. So all in all, they aren't the worst group out there, they're just super fucking annoying. It could've been worse though. You could've had Blaine Park Hunters in here, or even worse than that, the Southpoint Reapers. Those are the real dangerous ones, and while all of them are shitty to deal with, you're momentarily glad that those two groups stay all the way downtown.
That boisterous laughter sounds off again and one of those dummies bangs on the window he's sitting near hard enough to almost shatter it. Considering how old this building itself probably is, that wouldn't be too difficult to do. You roll your eyes as you continue in, trying to block out the idiocy invading your ears. Luckily it's not hard to do, because they quiet down. Unluckily that means it's because they've noticed your entrance. But your business is not near them so you don't have to interact. You aim your attention at the woman working the counter, a borzoi with mostly white and blonde-like, almost golden spots of fur. She's been watching the 6th street losers with characteristic disinterest, laced with a suitable amouint of wariness, until you step into her field of veiw.
"Hey Shelby." you say to her. "Can you start me up?"
She nods, already hitting the keys on her computer to start up the pitching machine. You turn and head toward the cage marked with a large number 3 painted into the mesh, the cage you've always used. You're just a few steps from reaching it when a heavy hand claps onto your left shoulder and holds you in place.
"Hey slow down there buddy." Someone speaks to you with the air of a long time friend. "You know if you wanna use this place you gotta pay, right?"
"Yes I know." you say calmly, attempting to keep things civil, since you really don't want to get into it with these dumbasses. "I have an agreement with the owner so I pay for my games when I'm all done for the day."
You can already tell that he didn't mean paying for your games, like they would care about that. But maybe that obvious answer will let you off for now.
"What, nah, I don't give a fuck about your games." he chuckles, pulling on your shoulder and spinning you so that you face him. "I mean us."
You look up at him. He's about half a head taller than you and surprisingly scrawny looking. Piss yellow blonde hair, probably some shoddy dye job.
"We run this place now you see," he continues. "So if you wanna play you gotta pay entry fees. So I'ma need you to go ahead and turn out your pockets."
You roll your eyes, in his face, now that he's made you face him. "If I give you everything I've got, how would I pay for my games when I'm done?"
He shrugs, uncaring. "Sounds like a you problem, don't it?"
You look over to Shelby, who has her phone poised up in an obvious declaration. "I'll call the police if I have to" is what the gesture seems to imply. But the problem with that, is that Shelby cannot speak, she's completely mute. So telling them what the problem is, would be difficult. And if they didn't think it's a prank, especially in this city, you'd probably have to bank on them, what, hearing the sounds of you getting your ass beat by these two bit gangoons? You shake your head slightly at Shelby. You look back at the scrawny asshole about to mug you, then to his group of similarly worthless comrades. There's about three human men, a black furred rat looking guy, and some sort of canine that you think is a coyote. There's also a girl who could not be any more goth, and a red squirrel girl.
"What's your name, guy?" you ask as you turn your attention back to the one in front of you.
"Call me Jack." he says. "But I also respond to sir, my lord. And daddy." He turns to Shelby as he says that last one and both you, and her cringe heavily.
"Alright well, Jack." you say to get him to focus. "Let me explain this to you. You don't run shit."
Well damn, you didn't mean to say it like that, what happened to keeping things civil?
"Not only that, but I've never even fucking heard of you." you continue."If anyone should be running anything here, it should be me. So why don't you go sit your ass down with the rest of your fake little gangoon friends and get the hell outta my face with this bullshit?"
You aren't entirely sure where all of this is coming from. You were by no means a confrontational kid, and you were even less so after the accident, so choosing this moment in time to become a badass may not have been the smartest move. Even Shelby looks distraught during the small glance you give her. You didn't mean to, but there was just something completely wrong. Hearing this two bit wannabe call the place that you've spent the better part of your life in, his.
You casually take a step back and continue to take the last few steps toward your cage where your first round has been patiently waiting for you.
"You think you can just talk that shit to me?" Jack says, apparently not done and ready to save face after getting told off in front of his posse. "You don't know who the fuck we are? Well you're gonna learn today! We're fuckin' 6th Street you little-"
He throws his hand on your free shoulder again and whips you around with much more force than last time. Extremely unfortunate for him, as you used that momentum to your own advantage and bring the baseball bat he obviously didn't pay attention to out and up. It collides with his raised arm and smashes his own fist right into the side of his head. Which is disappointing because you were hoping to clock him in his empty skull with your bat. Oh well, he stands dazed for a moment by the blistering pain in his arm and the sudden rattling of his own skull, so you reel back again and bring your bat across his lower torso, bashing him in the stomach and expelling every ounce of air he had and maybe whatever he might've had for breakfast. He crumples to the ground and writhes like a worm pulled from the dirt and thrown onto bare concrete.
"Oh shit!" one of his comrades call and the rest spring to action. Well. This is it. There's five more of them and one of you.You don't know why you brought this course of action on yourself, but you've dug your own grave. So this is just where you die.
... But you're not gonna go without a fight.
They approach but quickly freeze. The reason being you're currently holding what could in this moment be described as a deadly weapon. What kind of gangsters walk around unarmed? The kind that only mess with regular people and think their colors are enough to scare them into submission. You take a step forward and they go backward, but they try to spread out in order to circle you. That's no good, if you get surrounded you're done for. So you act, going for the person on your right, you stare him in the eye and raise your bat up like you're about to strike at his head. When he immediately flinches and brings both his hands up to block is when you alter your trajectory and tag him right in the bend of his knee. He screams out and grips his leg as if you had caved in his kneecap, which all in all, might've been the right thing to do. The coyote rushes forward with his hands out to try and grab your bat from you, but just because it's the most dangerous thing about you in the moment, doesn't mean he should neglect the rest of you.
You throw your leg up as he comes forward and kick him with full force and attempt to neuter his ass on the spot. He lets out an agonizing bark of pain as he folds in on himself and hits the ground face first. The last two humans and the rat approach but only the one on your right still looks like something can be done in this situation. The other human and the rat are looking at the piling bodies and are beginning to understand that these numbers didn't give them an advantage.
The guy with no fear rushes at you and tries to throw this awful flying kick at you. You've got good sense for reading objects coming at you at high speeds so you easily step out of the way of that pitiful maneuver and twist your baseball bat around in your hands. You bring your right palm against the knob end of the bat, and as the 6th Street goon turns to find your position you jab the end of the barrel into his chest as if you were trying to put your bat straight through him. He takes a step back from the force and you repeat the action to his stomach. He wraps his arms around his torso from the force and you finish your assault with one more heavy jab into his face, right against his nose. The result is immediate as blood pours from his nose before he even hits the ground. He lays on the ground feebly cradling his busted nose. You turn your gaze on the last two remaining gangoons, but they just stand there dumbstruck. You return your baseball bat to its resting place over your shoulder and stare at them for a moment, waiting for them to make a move.
"Done already?" you ask in a tone reminiscent of boredom, with a mask of total indifference etched on your face..
The other human says nothing, but the rat nods quickly.
"Good. Now, tell Jackie when he comes to, that this place he so stupidly chose to commandeer, is mine. And he can have it when I'm fucking dead." You look to the girls who haven't moved an inch. The goth girl could not care any less that her comrades just got their shit kicked in, but the squirrel girl looks extremely impressed. "But if you come back I won't be so nice. Now get this fucking trash outta my center." you finish with as you step back to allow them the space to retreieve their fallen mates.
The two survivors eye you warily as they attempt to carry their buddies out. The girls help Jack stand but he had to rely on the goth for support since the squirrel is like half his height. She puts a hand on his back and side for minor support, but as they walk out she throws a final appraising glance at you and smiles to herself. As they vacate and your battle high comes down, you realize once again exactly what the fuck it is you just did. You just made an enemy of a gang. It would be great if they got the message and never came back, but you know quite well from media that this isn't going to end. But fuck it, you won't allow garbage like that to desecrate this place. This is your paradise, your Garden of Elysium, you'll fight to protect it. If you don't hold onto this at least, you really won't have anything anymore. Though if they come back with vengeance on their mind, the center should be the least of your worries.
A hand taps against your arm and you reflexively tense, thinking you missed a 6th Street goon. But as you turn, radiating malice, you find it's just Shelby. Who's staring at you with big brown eyes filled with worry. She puts her hand on your free shoulder and slides your bat out of the way to place her other hand on that shoulder too. Then begins patting and rubbing your shoulders wordlessly, never taking her eyes off yours for a moment. Of course, she can't speak, so she can't lend her voice to the action and explain what she's doing or why. But you can kind of infer that she's trying to console you, or at the very least calm you down. You did randomly explode and beat four people with your bat.
"I'm alright Shelby. Sorry." you say to placate her worry.
She doesn't seem to believe you, continuing her actions to console you.
"Seriously, I'm okay." you try again. "Just didn't want those idiots hanging around here. I'm sure Lou would be upset if he came back to that."
She tilts her head for a moment, but acquiescing to your words, she releases you. You look behind you to the site of your small battle.
"Want me to help you clean that up?" you ask, pointing to the puddle of blood that you caused.
She shakes her head and ushers you toward your batting cage, so you take that as her telling you to return to your routine. So you do as told. You walk in and press the button that starts the game. As the pitching machine revs up, targets descend mechancically from the far wall. A little something to increase the difficulty.
Or at least it was.
The first ball comes out, and you hit it with pinpoint accuracy and smack the ball right into the first target. Another ball, another target hit. Then the machine throws a curveball, but you still manage to hit it right into a target. Then it'll alter its speed and throw them even faster, or slower, curveballs, screwballs, sliders. You hit them all, and each hit is launched directly into a target. On the last ball, a tiny target appears. The ball fires out and you hit, just barely making contact with the tiny target. A short chime of fanfare plays out from around the building to congratulate your amazing feat. But it's just another day for you, since you've done this about a thousand times.
The machine starts powering down, indicating your set is done, before it immediately comes back on. Shelby knows the drill, you keep playing until you declare otherwise, so she keeps restarting the machine until you say you're done. You hit the start button again and throw yourself into another set, and instantly the madness you just brought down upon your once safe haven is forgotten.
Some famous athlete is probably the one that coined the phrase "Ball is life". Baseball is a type of ball, so it stands to reason that it too is life. And it was for you, for several long years. Back in your sixth grade elementary days, your school would always have this students versus teachers sporting event. That year was baseball. You'd seen it played but never actively played. But as it grew closer and closer to your turn, you grew more and more excited. When you were up to the plate, you hit the first ball ever thrown at you and miraculously scored a home run.
Hearing the crack of the ball against the bat, watching it sail into the distance, hearing the cheers of your schoolmates and the teachers both. In that moment you knew, you wanted to play this game for the rest of your life. And so you began to. You weren't really of a mind to care about any of the players or anything like some other sports fans, you just cared about the game itself. You weren't a legendary master of all fields, you were just decent playing the field, although you were a pretty good pitcher. But on the plate is where you shined. Knocking balls outta the park whenever you stepped up. Everyone told you that you were gonna go far. And you really could've. If only...
You finish your next set out of who knows how many, and finally conclude that you're done for the day.
"Alright Shelby." you call out. The machine powers down and stays off this time.
You don't really know the time since you don't bring your phone. Not the best idea but, you have no one to call anyway, so what would be the point? All you bring with you are your house keys and your practically empty wallet with your ID and your one bank card to pay for whatever you need in the moment. You hand Shelby your card and she charges you for your games. You don't need to ask what the total is, that's irrelevant. She hands your card back, you pocket it and get ready to leave.
"Alright, see you tomorrow." you say.
She waves her hand to get your attention and keep you from leaving just yet.
"What's up?" you ask. She beckons you closer, so you do as instructed. She reaches her hand out and smooths the hair in front of your face back and out of the way so that she can look into your eyes unobstructed. She searches them deeply, hunting for something. Peering into the windows of your soul and finding only vacancy within. When she finds, or doesn't find whatever she's looking for, she releases her hold on you and lets out a silently disappointed huff. Then she looks at you again with a tinge of the same worry she had right after your scuffle. You offer her another word of farewell and take your leave, giving no thought to whatever that was.
You peer up and down the street as you walk, half expecting a surprise legion of 6th Street goons coming to jump you. But finding no such thing, you continue on in relative peace. The scent of an active grill catches your attention and breaks you from your monotony of the trip home. A small building that looks like it could've been some bigger building's storage shed, with the name Heavy's Hams. It's a good time for lunch so you walk up.
"Ay Heavy." you say to the only man in the stall. A round bellied, shaved head, heavily tattooed man.
"Anon, my man." he says as he notices you. "Comin' from the cages huh?" He asks as he looks at your bat.
"Where else would I be?" you respond. You look at the menu, as if its contents would influence your lunch decision. "Can I get-"
"The usual?" Heavy interjects. "Already on it, my man. Like you order anything different."
You pay for your food, he serves it to you. You eat at the dining area Heavy set up next to his spot, and after lunch you once again return to your walk home. You enter your home and walk in. As you're about to head straight to your room, you pause, and look over at the mural of your parents.
"I'm back." you say. Their myriad stages of glee is their silent response. "I uh, kinda got into a fight today. Some of those 6th Street jerks were hanging around in Old Man Lou's, being nuisances, so I kind of lost it and we fought. I'm alright though."
You try to imagine how your parents would react in this situation. Your dad, sorrowful that you had to engage in violence, but a bit prideful that you had the nerve to stand up for yourself and emerged victorious. Your mom would probably just fawn over you, asking you over and over if you were alright.
"But I mean, it was just 6th Street, they're pushovers anyway. If it were the Reapers or something, things would be different."
You'd be speaking to them face to face would be the difference. Reapers and even Hunters, are not the fools to mess with if you enjoy breathing.
"But. Well... I'm alright. Yeah... I'm alright, so." you lie. To the memory of your parents, and yourself. With nothing else to say, you head up the stairs to your room.