1\Slugger. (Top)
Skull fracture.
It was decided in an instant. The back of the target's head was smashed by a 140 kilo demonic missile.
The whole body was heated up not by the taboo of murder, but the ecstasy of victory. The illusion of "I" being burned out by the sun. The sight of the batter's brains, splattered all over the asphalt, awakened an old layer of his consciousness.
*
The beginning. I didn't remember why was I so stubborn over such a small thing.
Mother said I was always inseparable from the ball since birth, but I have neither memory of this nor reason to believe it.
Actually, we didn't have the money to buy balls or gloves, and mother's upbringing didn't teach her to enjoy baseball.
Our home was really poor. I understood that from the get-go. Mother tried hard, but in the school the difference became only greater. Even in junior school, where they gave everyone identical textbooks to hide it, they couldn't conceal the gap… Actually, the good-natured kids could both respect poverty and make fun of it at once.
Luckily, we had many similar kids at my school. Rich and poor, top and bottom worked together and kept the balance. The attacks spread thin, and I - what great luck - didn't look funny when attacked, even got respect.
Except the lack of attacks brought lack of support.
For a long time I didn't know what "friend" is.
I didn't suffer from that. Didn't have time to. I had difficulty enough just living at home.
How can I grieve that my home is poorer than others? Though we were poor, we weren't at the brink. Extreme poverty takes away your childhood. And you can't go and complain to mother about it. On the contrary, I thought I should do something, but at my 6 years I couldn't really do a thing. How come I, in an environment without any money to spare for baseball, became interested in it?
…Now I think the reason for something should be small. No need for deep meaning or childhood traumas. Like this, laughing, normal, healthy neighbours' kids gather like ants to a sugar lump.
I just grabbed a ball for no reason and started playing with it - simple as that.
On the square between the houses in Noju we played baseball every day.
Red sunset. Closed space without adults. A game of a ball, a pitcher, a batter and a catcher.
"Hey. Wait long, Sinker?"
Every time I was waiting for the other two, and every time they were late.
I was short and poorly built.
But all three of us were lacking in something. We said: "A baseball player must eat well!" - and were happily lost in thought, and then laughed and added "no way for us to, though".
We joined our meager knowledge, pretended to train and kept playing till sunset.
…And somehow this became unnatural.
Sometimes we went to watch the youth league matches. Empty rows. We were told to come play the next day and noisily went home. An early culmination of life. We believed that tomorrow will be sunny, that now everything would be all right. Before a year passed these bright, pure times ended.
The difference in ability. Widening gap in skills. Dear friends, so nice before, but now glaring with envy .
Someone said that continuing to improve beyond the top was kinda boring. But then baseball was everything for me, and I couldn't bring myself to slow down for others to catchh up.
I had the anxiety of getting left behind too, you know. So why did my team tell me only "not to show off"?
I didn't have the right to lose,
and I didn't have the right to blunder.
That's why… I wished for this.
The red pancake of sun. A training ground for us three only. Some man with a kind face talked to us, among other things making something like an offer to grant our wishes.
"I wanted to hit a golden home run!"
"Then I want to be an unbeatable pitcher!"
A devilish smile under the hat.
The golden time ended.
Because after that baseball was no longer pure for me.
…Now there's nothing to remember. People dream about everything in the world, it seems, but the two dreams I had were enough for me.
One of them pretty much came from nowhere and disappeared back in there forever.
*
The brains on asphalt.
Amidst the stench of the fresh victim's blood he came to his senses. Apparently the horrible memory was only played back once.
Midnight. The first one, picked as a test, was a fake, useless in combat.
Body, fattened to the limit. Mind, relaxed to the limit. Skills, weakened to the limit.
The only things all right were the bat and the shoes, but the man accompanying them was merely a ruin holding on to the glory of the past.
He didn't feel the tinge of conscience or an unpleasant aftertaste from smashing the head of a man pleading for mercy. Rather, the ended life returned his sound judgement.
Weeding out the parasites is but a trifle.
They are needed for plants to develop, but in human terms they're disgusting, so death. This cleansing is different. The stimulus here is rage. He threw the weapon due to simple wrath.
"What a mess", - the dry lips utter in self-deprecation.
He takes the ball out of the skull.
The cow leather burned off, and the innards, hairs and threads can be seen. He decides that with this kind of damage the ball will serve him a couple times more and deeply sighs.
Not of exhaustion.
He just breathes air out to the cold.
White smoke. Clutching his shaking body, he finds the dead man's golden device and takes it.
Even on an empty national roadway there are convenience shops. The body will be found soon. Not that he minds, but the fuss over the first one will make later actions harder. Picking up the ball, he leaves into the darkness, shaking from the cold.
Suffering from cold on a tropical night.
The city's lights illuminated the "box" on the road, where the mangled body was left, still clutching the bat.
***
As usual, this year had a monstrously hot summer, making everything melt in the heat.
The temperature rose to 38 Celsius, and the weather forecast hid behind orange smiles for the entire coming week. In the overheated city on the brink of melting, naturally, the stream of busy people dried up as well.
Year 2004, the 6th of August, prefecture S, Shikura town.
During this month, when Ishizue Arika left the Origa clinic, youth crimes flourished in Shikura.
The youngster gang, the one that attacked Ishizue Arika, selling drugs. Its central member, Hisaori Shinya, who committed suicide. Mistakenly accused of his murder, disappeared A-syndrome carrier, Hisaori Makina. The tension between the residents of the industrial district Noju who were protesting against the court system. The rate of crimes committed by A-syndrome carriers has risen since last year. The road presentations by teenagers and youths has grown in size. Perhaps due to its delay a murder incident occurred.
Even if one were to simply count, there were too many problems.
Well, nothing you can do about it, and the passers-by habitually make mental notes of these things and continue looking at them without much concern. People's minds, like the city streets, are dry and boring.
- Huh? Arishima-kun, you're going home already?
Here is one of the polygon's angles.
Next to the playground before the station there is a tiny patch of common property. The fenced basketball court is filled by people in the blinding light of a multitude of lamps.
This park was created a few years ago. At nights this green court, abandoned under the sunlight, is filled with clamour, like a festival; laughs, cheers and jeers are heard all over the place.
- Come on, it's only 10 o'clock! Let's go on, till they turn the lights off! You can do that today after all, since you're an opponent.
- Sorry, but I really can't. They lock up early and at a set time where I live now. If I don't return before midnight, I won't have a place to sleep.
Arishima Shogo gloomily answers the light-headed, but friendly girl.
Shogo is a freelancer, barely nineteen years old. Height 183 cm, weight 95 kg. Naturally tough body, bot not without some fat, and the man should be called "big" rather than "tall".
This doesn't mean he's a glutton, though. The excess fat is there on purpose. You can often see this build in sportsmen - the muscles within are more important than the relief without.
- Whyyy?! There are more people in the park than usual. You're popular, aren't you, Arishima-kun? Why don't you show off before the newbies? One more time, please!
The girl considers Shogo a valuable financial support. Terrible, sure, she doesn't even try to hide it, but Shogo is still glad he's being relied upon.
Shogo has a good natural build, is gloomy and seemingly harsh, but inside he's kind and hates fighting. His peers already gave up trying to change his character, but they do acknowledge him as the soul of the party, and he is liked.
Essentially Arishima Shogo is from the same young group that gathers in this park.
Leaving school and going freelance, he is now enjoying his freedom. He's being told what a loser he is and how he is rotting, but let such gossip be discussed among bored idlers. He always pays the bills he acquires while having fun, so bring in the wine - this is Arishima Shogo's creed.
Thus, from his viewpoint, the girl before him, the youths in the park, they're all of his flock. Some may be black sheep, but whatchagonnado.
"Hey, guys. Sitting in the same spot takes energy too. Let's do something new. We have the energy to spare anyway. Something that's quick but fun. And, well… The most important thing, that is, filling our wallets".
This was the game proposed by the ringleader, something like an older brother for the gang.
Fun and profit. That's a proper game. Recently too many people chase only after money, and there are more black sheep among both players and spectators.
But the meaning of the game stays the same. This ring always attracts those like Shogo. An old-fashioned minded player like him values the game, the path to victory, far above profit.
- Nah, I'm done today. And the crowd is distracting.
- Are you serious?! How are we gonna have the next match then?! I don't wanna bet when I can lose…
The girl angrily grabs Arishima Shogo's hand.
If he doesn't go to the next match, the chances are pretty much equal. Looks like the girl is dissatisfied with the very chance of loss.
- I'm telling you, I can't. Let go. Tomorrow I'll come early and participate with regard to the opponent, okay? Better watch the game itself, Nanami-chan. It's fun if you pay attention.
- Uu. You're an ice shard, Arishima. This isn't funny, where am I gonna get money for tomorrow?.. And anyway, who cares about the stupid ball without the bets? I don't get what's so fun. What am I, a kid like you lot, to watch this?
- Yeah, that's that. It's an adult game now, baseball.
He grips her hand. Too strong, his rough fingers dig into her slender hand.
- Ouch, stop, it hurts!
- Sorry again. But still. It's a bad idea to talk here like this. The guys here are all baseball nuts. Anyone hears this, and you might find yourself staying in the karaoke box for a week.
The girl rapidly pales. She is still a third year at a high school, but evidently she has heard about it.
It's one of the urban tales. That if you badmouth baseball, you get taken to a karaoke box no one knows where and taught a harsh lesson.
- That's it. Well, see ya tomorrow.
Arishima Shogo didn't want to scare the girl. Saying goodbye with a carefree, soothing voice, he fixed the container with his stuff on his shoulders and left the park.
Going away from the station through a prospect with rows of shops, he went into a rarely lit residential district.
Eleventh hour. He didn't meet any person or car along the sloped road to the second block of Shikura hill.
Shikura hill, where the old-fashioned residents of this half-backwater live. At 10 o'clock there are two municipal buses per hour, so the respectable people and students are already home.
Most importantly, no one dares go out to the street on such a night.
The residential district is enveloped in silence.
The road is far too wide given the number of cars that use it. The street lights on both sides provide more light than necessary. It's a white light, like a night store's. A straight road slightly upwards - perfect for a duel.
Arishima Shogo is quietly walking, his bat in a bag on his shoulder.
Whatever he told the girl, he himself did want to play. No. The closing of doors was just an excuse, and he'd play every day if he could. SVS exists to be a refuge for those like Shogo. Arishima Shogo was so different now that the old he, stuck in the lazy flow of days, made himself tremble.
It's called "living a complete life". He started jogging again, learned to support his health according to sports' canons, and his mental state was slowly returning to the peak. Just recently there were cheap drugs going around, but it didn't interest Shogo in the least. Because if it really racked the brain, they would've got wind of it before others.
And he skipped today's game not to let the veterans who were entering the war tomorrow know of himself.
Today in the qualification round for the local summer games, the Kotokuin academy completely unexpectedly suffered a defeat. Just like the year before, it's a summer of crushed plans.
It wasn't simply a lost game, though. A lost baseball match is a tragedy. They watched the youth they devoted to the game, the time they spent on it crumble away into nothingness.
After tasting this pain fully you can't just run away. Actually, some team members, wishing for the continuation of the summer game, went all the way to the neighbouring city, Shikura, and watched the "game", which they were interested in for a long time, but couldn't play themselves.
"…Refusing to take part in it will be like a fire in a drought. The boys from that prestige school have no principles either. But yeah, our "Koala mater" is boring too. The 4 best and nothing more."
This SVS will be special. Apparently, near the summer school tournament the game grew in size, and the bets rose tenfold. Even the prestige school's pride - not playing with hoodlums - was blown away by the interest of it.
To topple these newcomers Shogo avoided random matches where he could be seen.
His opponent is a formal member with a numbered cell. As a man who was there since the beginning, he had to stay among the best three, or he wouldn't be able to face his elders.
"Still, at least we need to coordinate. Hmm, where can we get a good batter pitcher…"
The night air sticks to the skin. Sweat is flowing even from simply walking, but Arishima Shogo thinks not about this, but about the game he left behind.
The voices of the guys, uncoordinated, but excited, is still ringing in his ears. That park hidden between the tall buildings and the lighting they created for the game.
Apparently this is because it's too bright.
With his complete lifestyle, as his mind was healing his danger sense was decaying.
One other thing. He wasn't ready to pay attention to that rumour going around for a few days.
Now the dream lost along with the summer takes away his dislike of tropical nights, his negative feelings.
Once he said he'll pay his bills.
And now the bill is presented.
"Hey. You a batter?"
Like a hot wobbly mirage, a ghost. He appeared under a lamp three meters ahead.
The bill's name is Sinker. That's the nickname earned by this maniac killer after countless games.
*
"…"
Arishima Shogo was speechless because the emerged shadow really was a ghost.
Summmer means scary stories. Whatever appeared under the willow, uh, streetlight, its appearance and posture were far too strange.
He smells of sweat and dirt. His shirt and trousers have cuts all over them. His left hand is stretched out, but his right is hidden in a long sleeve. You can't even see what's inside. Add to this the hood, dropping a deep shadow on the face. In this tropical night he is incredibly weird.
"So. You're an SVS batter, right?"
A hoarse, muffled voice.
You can't tell for sure since the face is hidden, but seems to be a man. The muffled voice sounds like an old man's, but the body points at around Shogo's age.
But the most interesting thing for Shogo, more so than the weirdness of the person, was the left hand, stretched out as though to show off. It isn't like his own body, left untrained for four months and having reverted to an ordinary man's level. The man's hand was the trained hand of a sportsman. You could guess the rest of his physique by it.
The only thing that's in a bad shape is his clothes.
"Hood" is a player. A high-class one. In the army many times he saw the human body being trained only for the hit and only for the throw, the "chosen style" body like the one Hood had.
"Why the silence, Arishima Shogo? I'm not mistaken. Yeah, you're rusty, but your leg movements and back are going back to a batter's… You're tough in your own way. Though you were garbage, you restored yourself in these few months.
Hood let out a laugh mixed with coughing.
White steam left his mouth.
Is it even possible? His body was shaking. Being in this sauna heat, wrapped in a hoodie, and still practically screaming "I'm cold!"
"Who are you?.."
Deep night. It's like running into a hobo with a knife on the way to the night store. Too late to feel danger, but there's still time. There is some distance, three meters. Arishima Shogo will simply turn and run full speed.
"Wait. I'm here for a match. Let's play first, or it'll get boring. Anyway, you start running, and the only thing left is to kill you. Pointless and no fun. Isn't that so, batter? You die anyway, so play with me first and kick the bucket later."
There are no emotions in Hood's voice. No, there's no way to express them in the first place.
The hoarse voice is either calm, or excited, or happy. A wave of emotion that can't be expressed to others. Or maybe not. Maybe his voice is born of rage.
Shogo remembers another recent rumour.
A few days ago a member of the game was found dead. The road where it happened was devoid of people, just like this place.
The cause of death was a hit on the back of the head. His skull was smashed by an object sized like a baseball. Apparently, he lived for a few hours after that, but no one came, and he died, being found in the morning by some guy.
…Yeah. A game member being killed by an object like a baseball.
That's more than enough to spark rumours.
Maybe the big stakes summoned a demon who inhabited SVS this season? A slit-mouthed woman, nah, wrong era. Or a Red Cloak. To win the finals, the monster appears before batters in secret and plays a game with them, where the bet is your life.
If you decline, it kills you. If you strike out, it kills you.
Only one way to survive. To hit that pitcher's ball by SVS rules…
"You really are the one from the rumours, huh?"
Moving closer, Arishima Shogo studies the monster before him. For whatever reason his voice is steady.
A real monster or a fake one, whether the rumours are true or not - he doesn't care. Because there is no value in fear. Shogo's self as a batter frees him from its restraints.
"Rumours?.."
"Yeah. There were some about a maniac pitcher recently.That he's possessed, that he's crazy, that he'll kill you for three strikes, that he'll eat an onlooker's bones, stuff like that. Well, that's bullshit. So you're him?"
"I guess. Signed a pact with the devil, that's true. It's probably about me."
"I see", - Shogo puts his stuff down.
Taking a wooden bat out of its case, he points it at Hood.
"So, if I do hit, I can just walk away?"
The fear is gone.
Analyzing the enemy's abilities is an essential skill for batters. Furthermore, the mind of Arishima Shogo with a bat in hand is that of a warrior lusting for battle. It's only natural, since that's what batters train for years.
"Huh. Didn't expect that. I thought the second one will hesitate… Say, you really do accept?"
"Sure. If you're a killer, I won't go down that easy, and like hell you're getting a strikeout. Yeah, do you have a cell?"
Hood shows a silver cellphone. It's a sign of formal membership for pitchers. Arishima Shogo, a batter, has a golden cell.
That's their game. One base game, SVS - a contest for 18 cell phones. After a duel the winner takes the loser's phone. The one who lost the phone is disqualified, and when either the pitchers or the batters lose all their phones, the match ends.
The victory belongs to the team with more phones. The one who acquires the most phones gets the best player prize.
An official match happens once a month.
It's an individual contest with a taste of a battle royale.
That's what the young townsfolk arranged, a player's paradise.
The bunch in the park playing a similar game are something like the second echelon, and players who have shown themselves there are invited to the official tournament.
Arishima Shogo is gold-3. Hood's cell is silver-A (ace). Hard to believe, but this killer openly took part in the SVS gatherings and got his cell.
Either no one knew he's an A-syndrome carrier, or his deal with the devil happened after registering. Such details didn't concern Shogo, though. Perhaps because he lived far away from social conventions. His distaste towards force solutions and crimes simply got blunt.
In a way Arishima Shogo himself is an outlaw possessed by the demon of SVS.
"Fine. Opponent accepted."
Shogo is certain of victory.
Hood is 170 cm tall. With this height he can throw the ball at 110-120 km/h at most. Because of his height he probably relies on trick balls, but SVS rules allow a simple touch, and Shogo will be able to protect the base. One "maniac pitcher" is too little to fear. He'll simply knock the ball out.
And if Hood doesn't keep his word and attacks, he'll simply beat him up. The difference in their build says its word. Shogo has no reason to lose a fight, and anyway, he has a bat, a great weapon.
Memories of a batter who was already killed are troubling, but seeing as the opponent is a maniac, one can think up any number of counters. Arishima Shogo isn't a weakling, he's a trained sportsman. He's sure of himself, and the opponent's weapon is a ball he's used to. There'll be no fear.
"Usual rules. Sorry, but the light is in your favor, so I'll walk back 10 meters. How many balls you got? No catcher or nets here. No running after the ball."
Takes the glove out of the container, puts it on.
Takes the bat with both hands, moves his shoulders in a circle.
Like a conditioned reflex. This ritual lets him concentrate and prepare his body.
A murderous pitcher. It's unknown how much of this to believe, but in this situation Arishima Shogo, a batter specialist, is, though one detached from society, still a commendable master.
"Will do. Wow, I can't even catch my breath, Arishima.
"Huh?"
Hood laughs happily.
Now it isn't that unemotional voice. Now it's full of gratitude for the indescribable delight he's feeling. Arishima Shogo's, the well-liked batter's pride and arrogance. This arrogant readiness makes Hood happy - that's how it should be!
Steamy breath and shivering body.
The lips visible under the hood are rustling dryly, and there's this vertical streak, an ugly scar from a cut.
"?.."
This scar touched Shogo's memory, but hasn't made him remember anything.
Like a moth attracted to light, he carelessly stood in his last box.
*
The worry peaked when they took position.
A batter box outlined by white.
There's no pitcher's mound. No plate either.
And only upon setting foot on this cheap field had Arishima Shogo felt his hairs standing on ends.
The feeling of electric current in the back of his head.
The air isn't heated up by the summer sun.
The fanatical, unmistakable and horrifying killing intent emitted by the man nineteen meters ahead.
Finally appearing in Arishima Shogo after thoughtlessly putting foot on the executioner's stage, his uncertainty, however…
Was completely beaten out of him by an utterly different kind of attack a second later.
*
They call fast serves "smoke balls" in baseball.
The slang began with an analogy. That the ball can't be seen, like smoke. It's correct. Arishima Shogo might not be able to take on fast balls, but he can trace their movements. But on this night, for the first time in his life he understood that a ball can go past him unnoticed.
"Ah… Eh?"
His shoulders got stiff with tension.
He should've been preparing for the next throw, catching the rhythm, but Arishima Shogo turned into stone.
It's impossible to concentrate on the movements of the pitcher a few dozen meters away.
No, the more he tries, the more he loses his breath. His eyes go dark. The center of his head is purged by something unknown.
The pitcher who stood on the mound even without the plate.
The grip on the ball is visible, even without a glove.
The pose is not for a wind-up, when the whole body is used to give energy to the throw, but to move from the "hand near belt" position to a side throw.
A typical side throw from the right.
With his build the ball will go up to 120 km/h. Additional distance will give another ten compared to throwing from above, but it's still only 130. Not enough to not see the ball.
The classic theory says "watch the ball well", but it's just a hint to new batters. If you train your eyes and technique, you can attune to the first serve right away. For example, there was a genius batter in Shikura last year, a guy who took even the hardest balls on the first try.
That genius slugger is "super-high class", and he's a long way from Arishima Shogo, but he's a batter of the same sort, "eye and attunement". He doesn't track the situation. His style is to hit on the very first serve.
Pitcher's takeback is in 19 meters. Left leg raised, right serving as the axle for spinning. He gauged the opponent's real strength just by this position. His eye is not worse than that slugger's.
This is what made him the third best batter during the army, his true strength and the source of his overconfidence - his experience took only a fraction of a second to show itself.
Abandon hope. You won't take a single ball of this pitcher's.
"What…"
No time-outs. The moment he stood in the batter's box there was no escape.
That was a beautiful movement.
A swing, a strong step ahead with his left.
A straight line towards the batter, outlined by the thigh and the foot, sharp as an arrow.
A forward turn executed not with legs, but with pelvis.
The left foot hits the ground not with the toe or the heel, but with the whole sole.
The movement releases the stored strength.
The body, opened sideways, twists into a spiral.
The solid fundament of feet and pelvis births a stream of power. From the ankle to the hip. From the hip to the shoulder. From the abdomen to the wrist, the energy passes and accelerates further, to the fingers.
Like a man sling.
The pitcher's right hand releases a white ball.
The shot happens within 0.46 seconds. The ball's speed is about 140 km/h. Such a fast side throw can be seen only from a pro. But the problem isn't the crazy speed. The trajectory changes midway without any loss of speed.
The first attack came from the side.
The ball released by the pitcher was wild. It looked like a huge miss to the right, the dead zone for him, being left-handed. But the ball went behind his right shoulder, disappeared and then curved and returned into the strike zone. It looked like a ">" sign from above.
Impossible? Doesn't even begin to describe it.
The serve type, apparently, is a "joker", but the curve resembling a boomerang would be absurd to call even a "screwball".
The ball changes its trajectory after the throw due to air friction and the way it interacted with the air. Opposing currents and friction create the various changes in the ball's behaviour. But. A change of ninety degrees is way beyond a human's capabilities. And this means…
"You're actually a good batter, in your own way."
The hooded monster takes another ball out of his pocket.
The right hand, hidden in the long sleeve, wriggles like a living being.
Arishima Shogo did not know. He heard that possession was a mental disorder, deviation from common sense. Not knowing about real possessed, he couldn't have known that the changes affect the body as well.
"You're only half good at everything. The training, the spirit and the moves are so normal it makes me want to sleep. Seriously… Boring. Scum."
So. The pitcher wasn't throwing trick balls or screw balls. They were true, real demonic balls.
"Wait… What do you mean?"
Now Arishima Shogo's voice was trembling.
His consciousness was clouded.
That was nothing but the instinctive fear foreseeing the end.
Hit or die. I think there was a rule like this?..
"Wait… Wait, dammit!"
The hooded monster gathered himself up.
The final serve. A throw more similar to a nightmare.
Feeling dizzy, he adjusts his batting to the pitcher's form. Like Hood said, Arishima Shogo was a good batter.
His bat didn't even touch the screwball going at 140 km/h, but batting capable of hitting a ball flying from a dead zone to a dead zone, is rewarded with cups.
"Dammit, what's going on?!"
His mind was on the verge of crashing.
The unprecedented screwball. One with a higher speed than the first ball, at that. The first ball that he couldn't even notice. And yeah, he wasn't afraid of the crazy deadball, being certain that now he could see even this killer's ball.
But this ball is different. He won't see it. Thinking over this screwball, he won't notice as he dies. The rubber ball going at over 140 km/h will hit his head. He doesn't even want to think about it. This game has no helmets. What stupidity. After all, the one who said this sport won't be accepted by normal people, was Shogo himself.
"W… what the hell, this is nonsense, this doesn't make any sense!!"
His body was instantly soaked with sweat.
Over the long years of crazy training Arishima Shogo acquired resistance to heat. His sudden sweat wasn't related to the tropical night. It was a scream of chilly fear.
"Huh… Tch, what an ugly sight."
Shogo realized that the whisper was about him, but didn't have the spirit to retort. An overwhelming difference in power. The pitcher's insult, thrown from the heart, didn't even give the batter an opportunity to get angry.
But the reality was far more tragic.
Hood's devilish abilities weren't directed against Shogo. It's just a kind of screwball. It's just a demonic ball with which he laughed at the absurdity of his own irreversibly twisted serve.
An ugly sight.
His own ball wasn't that unsightly.
The owner of the demonic ball unhurriedly takes out his third ball.
There are no timeouts in SVS. You can't leave the box from the beginning to the end. As soon as you leave, the rules declare the batter's loss. And what then? Probably the same. As soon as Shogo runs this demonic ball will crash through his head's defenceless rear. Aah, so the dead batter probably ran in the middle of the match…
"Ah!.. No, but, but it's useless anyway!"
No leaving. Must hit. Arishima Shogo's mind is almost out, but the batter's mentality honed over a decade corrects his grip on the bat.
Hit it. Simply hit it. You saw the speed, the serve types, the forms of the pitcher. Just hit. You don't need the ball to fly, and a hit is entirely possible!..
"Heh, you're good. Like a wall on your right side, Arishima."
The owner of the devilish ball, the devilish abilities is not a pitcher anymore. His right hand is wriggling. Slowly, as though snow is coming off it, the white ball is becoming red.
"Ah, what?.."
When did the pitcher get hurt? Or is it a compensation for such inhuman throws? Blood is running along the pitcher's right hand.
…Some machinations with the ball before the serve are illegal. Smoothing it with a needle file - shineball. Spitting on it for lubrication - speedball. Also various balls used to remove the spin given by the fingers, with a different degree of trajectory change and the like.
All of these are cheating feints used to deceive the batter's eyes, taboos adhered to even by those only after money. But… Is blood against the rules?
Actually, a blood-covered ball will stick to the fingers. Like batting is centered on passing strength to certain muscles, pitching doesn't allow one to skip a stage in the system, from the heels to the fingertips. Vague worry, momentary disorientation, loss of form ruin the fine motorics, lead to wild balls. The feeling in the fingertips is the most important thing.
That's why it's certain. A normal human in such a state wouldn't even have managed to throw straight.
"Ah… Ah!"
That's why we can stop. This isn't a time-out. The pitcher is directly violating the rules - almost says Arishima Shogo, but when the words reached his throat, his thoughts disappeared.
An injured right hand. A bloody ball. A few memories related to this acute killing intent. An old memory surfaces. Ah yes, this is…
"All right, the third. If you don't hit it - the end!"
…The pitcher's set-up.
There won't be a time-out. Only to hit. Now do everything to hit. Arishima Shogo breathes in tact.
Hood's serve form is understood. The timing matches. The only thing left is to make the ball's trajectory collide with the bat's.
"A-ah…"
But, this won't happen.
Hood's form is different. His hand is even lower than his side throw. His form hugs the ground. Its difficulty, the strain on the abdominal muscles make it incredibly rare, chosen by few.
A low serve. Yes. This one was saved for the finale, understood Arishima Shogo a second ago. He saw this serve, looking more like acrobatics, many times.
The lowest exit of the ball. Thrown from below, it climbs towards the batter's throat and…
"K… ha!!!"
…suddenly dives before his nose.
The bat, mercilessly missing, and the demonic ball, going away like lightning.
A kind of screwball - sinker. One of the side pitcher's trump cards, a screwball moving out of the batter's sight. This ball has another specific quality. If you throw it via low serve, it will follow a specific trajectory of rising and diving. And all this at the speed of a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. You can't take it with human reactions.
"Ah…"
Doing a full swing and still standing, Arishima Shogo fainted.
Three serves. No "funny" balls, no trimming into the out zone. Now the end from the rumours… But it's strange. Hood isn't moving. Doesn't take out a fourth ball. If he was going to kill with the third, it'd be a deadball, and the batter would've been dead by now. But that moment is lost, it seems. Then the rumour was a lie, Arishima Shogo decides, feels relief, and at that moment…
"Eh?.."
Hears fireworks behind his back.
A part bloody, part white ball rushes through the darkness.
Crack.
And in the end he… heard his skull being crushed.
Originally Posted by Enhance
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