This is part one of two. You are Anastasia Isarobot. You experience your first, and last days on the mound.
Anastasia Isarobot (she/her) is a robot, currently dead player who played for the Mexico City Wild Wings, and was in the Chicago Firefighters shadows. Kennedy Rodgers (he/him) is also a robot, her father and played for the Mexico City Wild Wings, and Chicago Firefighters as a pitcher, he is currently in the black hole. Gabriel Griffith, (she/him) is a large, bipedal eagle, played for the Chicago Firefighters as a pitcher, and is currently on the Baltimore Crabs.
The first time you step on a mound, your father is following after you.
You asked. Not your dad for this, but your aunt.
You had whispered your request to her between shifts, hoping the volume on your speakers would not sell you out.
Gabe, of course, said yes.
Gabe, of course, cannot keep a secret in his life.
So it is late.
You are standing on the mound in the Fire House and Gabe is standing to one side of you, and dad is on the other.
The two of them talk, and keep talking, they are both trying to explain to you different things. Gabe is talking about form, the inert and explosive motion of your body. Dad is talking about control and pacing, in between concerned glances and the occasional ‘are you sure?’
Your processors cannot handle it with too much competing information at once. You silently whirl and stand there in stasis until the question slips out of your mouth.
“Will one of you please be my catcher?”
The two of them quiet. Gabe shifts, and he gives your dad a glance. You hear your father’s hand on your back, and the sensation of the up and down worried rubbing registers with a calming presence.
“I’ll go catch.”
Dad walks off and the pressure sensitivity warning finally subsides.
“Now, let's go through this again.”
Gabe wasn’t kidding; long before you were allowed to hold a ball in your hand, the two of you worked through form.
You move through the motions, Gabe guides you through. The wind up, the motion of your legs, the way your arms bend just right. There’s not a catch in your joints, and each and every step you are guided though, you flow through with ease.
Dad did watch, for what it’s worth, but it looked like he was at least enjoying being out here so late. Between reps, you watch him gaze up at the stars. He installed a zoom lens for his optical sensors, and it was a project you worked on together-
“Ana, you ready for a bit of practice ball?”
You’re broken out of your thoughts by Gabe, who is holding a bat and wearing a helmet. Dad is putting on catchers gear, and next to him is a bucket of blaseballs.
You perk up and nod.
When you’re there alone, you could be in your own universe.
Gabe and dad are settling in place, you’re holding the ball in your hand. You roll your shoulder joints back and forward.
“Ready?” Dad shouts out, and you call back.
“Ready.”
Gabe gets into position. Dad doesn’t throw you a sign.
You wind up. The motions in your head tick. One at a time, one after another.
It reminds you of the melody, the one you picked out of the last music box you found after a trip with dad.
Your motion carries you backwards first, sliding across the dirt.
The rolls of metal, the gears that spin them, perfectly calculated to play the song one way, every time.
Your body moves with precision.
The ball releases from your fingers.
You land on the beat.
Gabe is yelling, and Dad is laughing too. He calls out, nice and loud, to you.
“Strike!”
You take a rest. Just for a moment. And start the song again.