Slugger (Baseball Battle Shounen)

[Gally]

SLUGGER​

There is a special taste to the air of spring. It is the taste of warmth, long forgotten in the bitter cold of winter. It is the taste of light, a promise from the sun assuring us we have not been abandoned. It is the taste of green, of life arising again from earth that was once so barren.

It is the taste of baseball.

"Hey batta batta batta! Swing batta! Swing!"

The all too familiar refrain pounds in your ears, a mockery you must endure.

"Can't hit it, can't hit it, swing batter swing!"

The jeers come from all around the diamond. The tall, skinny first baseman, the shorter, wiry second baseman, the twitchy shortstop who won't stop smacking his gum in between words, the stoic, unmoving third baseman who watches you with eyes more like an eagle's than a boy's. Even the outfielders are getting in on the fun, belting the words out with all the volume their lungs can muster.

The pitcher shakes his head. You glance at the scoreboard, a haphazard collection of numbers scrawled in white chalk.

4-5. Bottom of the ninth. Runner on second. Two outs.

You tap your wooden bat against each cleat, then against the mound of dirt in front of you. It is a poor man's equivalent of a home plate, but it serves.

The pitcher shakes his head again. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then nods.

That nod is everything to you. In an instant, the entirety of the world shrinks to a narrow strip of grass forty-six feet in length. The jeers and taunts fade into blissful nothingness, replaced only by the sound of your heart beating in your chest, of your blood pounding against your skin. The pitcher winds up, bringing his knee high, arm contorting as he twists his body in ways the human form was never meant to be twisted.

An instant later you swing.

You feel it first – a quiver in your hands – but not half a heartbeat later you hear it, the crack of wood on horsehide, the first and only note of the symphony you have been waiting to play your entire life. There is nothing else that can even approach this, you think as you finish your swing, following through, twisting your body at the hips. There is no greater triumph in this world than hitting a baseball.

The ball leaves your bat like a rocket, a streak of white and red against the clear blue of the spring sky. You do not even drop your bat, merely rest it on your shoulder as you admire your handiwork. The outfielders scramble backwards, their gloves lifted to the air, but before long they are at the fence that marks the end of the outfield, and are left to gape in impotent fury as the ball continues its flight, going going going until it is well and truly gone.

You lift your bat above your head and unleash a yell, a primal cry of dominance that carries across the diamond. "Home run!" You bellow, tilting your face back to drink in the warmth of the sun. "Home fucking run!" You are only ten, still a shade too young to appreciate the full gravity of the swear word, but you know that it is a word to be used when no other word can capture the magnitude of your emotion. You level your bat at those who had dared heckle you, their mouths pressed into tight, thin lines. "You better remember this!" you shout. "You better remember that I can hit anything! I'm Takahiro Takahiro, and I'm the greatest batter in the whole world!"

"Is that true now?" It is an unfamiliar voice that asks this question, a voice that rings not with the shill bravado of a boy, but the easy, baritone authority of a man. You whirl around to face the speaker, standing behind the backstop.

He is tall, even for an adult – though on second glance you find you're not really sure how old he is. His face, narrow and clean shaven, reminds you of your cousin, just out of high school, but his posture, the way he carries himself…in this, he evokes your father or grandfather, men heavy with the weight of the world. The red and white baseball cap he wears drenches his eyes in shadow, but his wry, self-assured smile is left exposed to the sun.

Spoiler: The Man

You strut towards him, until the two of you are separated by only a foot and a rusting chain link fence. You meet his eyes, so that he understands that you're not afraid of him – that you're not afraid of anything. "Better believe it," you tell him. "I can hit any pitch, any of 'em."

The man nods slowly, as if considering your words. "It was a hell of a home run," he admits. "How about a bet, then?" He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a brown leather wallet, worn from use. Inside are a stack of bills, ones and fives and twenties, more money than you have ever dared to imagine. "If you can put your bat on one of my pitches before I strike you out, you can have all the money in here."

Your jaw falls open despite your best efforts to keep composure. "I don't even have to hit a home run?"

"You can hit a pop fly, a foul ball, anything. If there's contact, money's yours." He pauses for a moment, considering. "I'd rule out bunts, though. Not really in the spirit of the challenge."

You had never for a moment considered bunting anyway. "Yeah? And what do you get if you win?" you ask. "You're not one of those kid diddlers, are ya?" Your father is always telling you to watch out for kid diddlers.

The man laughs. "You don't have to worry about me," he says. "If I win…well, you don't really have anything that I want. So think of this as less of a bet and more of a challenge. If you lose, we shake hands and walk away."

You scratch your chin, considering. On the one hand, you've always wanted to be a billionaire. On the other, if you do lose this bet, the other kids are gonna…

Who are you kidding? As if you'd lose.

"You're on!" You shout, turning on your heel and retaking your spot at home plate. "Just get my money ready, got it?"

The man steps up onto the pitcher's mound, takes a look around, then takes several long steps back until he's about halfway between the mound and second base. "Is it okay if I pitch from here?" he calls. "I'm not as used to the smaller diamond."

You knock your bat against each cleat and then home plate. "Doesn't matter," you say. "Stand wherever you want."

"Great," the man says. He pulls a baseball from his jacket and tosses it in his hand, examining you. Then he waves the catcher out of the way. "It's better if you're off to the side," he calls. "That goes for everyone behind the fence too."

Your fingers tighten around the wooden handle of the bat. Who is this guy kidding, saying ridiculous stuff like that? The fence might not look like much, it might be rusty and crooked and older than dirt, but it was standing when your father first set foot on this diamond and it'll be standing long after your son steps off it for the last time. "You gonna jabber or pitch?" you shout. "I got things I wanna buy with your money."

The man's teeth flash white in the light of the sun. "Fastball," he calls, "right down the middle. Ready?"

"You're not supposed to tell me what you're pitching," you growl, more to yourself than anyone else. But your world shrinks, darkness erasing everything that isn't you or the pitcher or the baseball. The man winds up, his movements practiced, languid, and then-

There is a sound like a jet engine. You grunt in surprise and confusion, but you cannot even swing your bat before a concussive force slams into you, sending you stumbling backwards. You lose your balance and fall onto your ass into the dirt, heels over head.

It is several long moments before the dust finally settles. There is a circular hole in the fence directly behind the strike box, its edges still glowing cherry red. In the distance, you can see that a tree has fallen.

"Wh…what?" You whisper. The scene before you is impossible, and yet you can't deny what your eyes are telling you. The other kids are similarly flabbergasted, sitting or kneeling in the dirt and dust and grass, their jaws hanging open.

The man only smiles and bounces another baseball on his palm. "That's strike one," he says as you push yourself to your feet.

You decide not to argue with him, even if you didn't technically see the pitch go through the strike zone. Instead you retake your place at home, though the mound of dirt is rather worse for the wear after enduring the last pitch's shock wave.

You tap your bat against each cleat, then against the plate. The habit calms you, driving away the doubt and confusion and letting your focus crystalize. You've faced good pitchers before, hit crazy fastballs before. This may be on a different level, but it's not fundamentally different from anything you've already seen. Now that you know what to expect…

"Same as last time," the man shouts, winding up. "Same pitch, same place!"

You start your swing before he's midway through his motion, bat slicing through the air so quickly the wind whistles as it passes. There is another storm of force and wind and dust as the ball rockets through the strike zone, fire trailing after it like a deranged comet – but there is no quiver in your hands, no crack of bat against ball, no opening note of glorious contact.

"Strike two," the man says, cracking his knuckles. Maybe it's just a trick of the light, but you see something in his eyes, a glint of surprise or amusement.

You grit your teeth and look down at your bat. The wood is old and well worn, every inch of it familiar to you – except for a streak of scorched wood, black soot and cherry red embers.

You glance back at the fence, which has sprouted another smoldering hole. The ball. You hadn't hit it, not quite, but you'd come close enough for the heat of its passing to mark to your bat. Your lips twist into a fierce, ragged smile, and you take your stance. "Fine then!" You roar, voice alight with the defiance and invincibility of youth.

The man adjusts his hat, eyes vanishing into the shadow of the brim. "Whatever you say, kid," he says, raising the ball high. You get the briefest glimpse of his fingers twisting around the laces in the most curious way before he winds up. "Right down the middle again…Featherball."

You almost swing early, like you did for the second pitch, but at the last second you hear his words and stop yourself. The ball leaves the man's hand but there is not roar like a jet engine, no burst of wind and heat signaling the ball's passage. Instead the ball flies in a gentle, curving arc, spinning almost lazily as it goes.

You narrow your eyes.

Is he…playing with you?

The boys your age can throw pitches harder than that. Does he mean to throw the contest, giving you an easy pitch? Does he want to humiliate you? Your fingers tighten around the handle until you can feel the wood splinter beneath your grip. You move to swing, eyes locked on the ball, picturing the moment when it slams into the smug bastard's face and you take his money to the cheers of an adoring crowd.

You swing…and the moment before your bat touches the ball, it drifts out of the way.

Your eyes widen, to better drink in the impossibility of the sight. The ball, which instants before had been travelling in a slow, predictable arc, suddenly floats up, over and around your bat, like a leaf buffeted by a summer wind. Your mouth falls open as the ball drifts past you and lands softly in the dirt behind home plate.

The diamond is completely, utterly silent, devoid even of the chirping of birds or rustling of the wind. You bend down and pick the ball up, half expecting your fingers to slip through it, a phantasm in the shape of a baseball. But it feels normal in your hand, solid and warmed by the sun.

"Here," the man says from behind you. You whirl to see him not a foot away from you, his entire face cloaked in shade except for the barest gleam of a smile. He reaches into his wallet and pulls the bills from them, handing them to you.

You take them in stunned silence, and watch as the man walks away.

*​

Six hours later, you throw the crumpled bills at the back of the man's head. "Ow," he says, but there's more surprise in his tone than pain. He turns to look at you. "What the shit, kid?"

It is sunset. You have spent the better part of the day running all over town, searching for the mysterious man with the red and white baseball cap. It is only by sheer coincidence that you found him, sitting on a rock at the top of the hill overlooking your town. Gehrigville might be a backwater, but the light of the setting sun can weave beauty and wonder from even the greatest banality, and for a moment the sight of your home takes your breath away. Then you remember why you're here.

"I don't want your stupid money," you say, crossing your arms. "I didn't earn it."

The man laughs. "Kid," he says, bending down to pick the money up, "you earned it."

You dig in your heels – not just metaphorically but also physically, to make your point of view as clear as possible. "The deal was that if I hit your pitch, I get your money. But I didn't."

"The game was rigged from the start," the man says. His wry smile has returned. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Take the money."

"I don't want the money!"

The man's grin falters for the barest fraction of a second. Then he shrugs and slips the money into his back pocket. "Okay then, kid," he says. "What do you want?"

You swallow, girding up your courage, the drop to your hands and knees. "I want you to teach me!"

The man arches an eyebrow. "Teach you?"

You stare at the dirt, tears welling in your eyes. You don't feel sad – but you feel so much. "My dream…" you say "is to be a man who can hit any pitch."

"I see. And why exactly is that?"

You frown. "What?"

"It's kind of a funny dream," the man says. "You could dream of a million dollars, or the love of a beautiful girl, or to be king of the world. But you want to hit baseballs. Why is that?"

You are silent for a long time, struggling to find the right words to describe the taste of spring air, the rhythm of an anxious diamond, the symphony of wood on horsehide. But every time you think you have a chance to describe the smallest piece, the words fall apart in your head, leaving you with nothing.

Finally, after an agonizingly long time, you look up at the man. "Because it's baseball."

The man laughs. "Stand up, kid."

You stand, and the man pats you on the head. "I'll give you a few pointers," he says, looking out over the town, as the last vestiges of sunset vanish over the horizon. "You can be my disciple, Takahiro Takahiro."

In the six years that pass, you are…

[x] A delinquent
[] An upstanding citizen

 

[Gally]

Character Sheets​

Spoiler: Takahiro Takahiro

Takahiro Takahiro
The Devil of the Gherigsville Diamond
​

Strength: ★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ [2/10]
Speed: ★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ [2/10]
Finesse: ★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ [1/10]
Perception: ★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ [2/10]
Instinct: ★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ [2/10]
Charm: ★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ [2/10]

 

[Gally]

Reserving post for future use

 

[Gally]

Mechanics​

Spoiler: Stats

Each character has six stats. Three are physical (Strength, Speed, Finesse) and three are mental (Perception, Instinct, Charm). They range from 0-10. Stats can be used to get quick understanding of the strengths and weaknesses of different characters.

Strength: Lift, smash or hit.
Speed: Run or react.
Finesse: Manipulate or maneuver.

Perception: Examine or predict.
Instinct: Analyze or assess.
Charm: Intimidate, persuade, or reveal your power.

When Takahiro encounters a challenge, the challenge will be assigned a statistic and a difficulty rating. For example, breaking down a wooden door might be Strength 2, while breaking down a metal door might be Strength 4. If Takahiro's relevant stat is equal to or greater than the difficulty rating, he auto-succeeds. If his relevant stat is less than the difficulty rating, however, he must roll.

DR = Stat +1 = 1/2 chance to succeed
DR = Stat +2 = 1/3 chance to succeed
DR = Stat +3 = 1/4 chance to succeed

Difficulty ratings that are four ranks or more above Takahiro's relevant stat carry no chance of success barring extenuating circumstances.

Spoiler: Red Oni/Blue Oni

When Takahiro learns a new technique, that technique will usually slot into either the Red Oni or Blue Oni archetypes.

Red Oni techniques are direct and straightforward, prioritizing raw power.
Blue Oni Techniques are removed and calculating, prioritizing technique and observation.

Each archetype possesses its own, non-exclusive technique tree. This means that Red Oni techniques will not block you from taking Blue Oni ones, and vice versa, but specializing in one archetype over the other will allow Takahiro to more quickly unlock powerful techniques.

Note that technique archetypes don't correspond to personality. A Takahiro that specializes in Blue Oni techniques can still be rash and hotblooded, depending on the character choices that questers make.

 

[The Grey Mage]

[X] A delinquent

This is the only path, my whole life is...
Unlimited Bat Works

 

[Rowknan]

[X] A delinquent

A Gally Quest! Lets see the American Passtime be Shonen'd!

 

[Solace2117]

[X] A delinquent

I'm intrigued and being a delinquent sounds more fun.

 

[QTesseract]

Huh, a Gally quest. Sign me up.

[X] An upstanding citizen

 

[veekie]

[X] An upstanding citizen

 

[R Besque]

[X] A delinquent

This is the dream, right here.

 

[Birthday]

[X] A delinquent
If you can hit a head, you can hit a baseball!!

 

[SirLagginton]

[X] An upstanding citizen

 

[Zaealix]

[X] An upstanding citizen

 

[lolpancaker]

[X] An upstanding citizen

 

[LiamOfOrmonde]

[X] A delinquent

No duh this is the best and only choice.

 

[ImprovLoser]

[X] A delinquent

The obvious choice.

 

[Gally]

"Strike three!"

You are Takahiro Takahiro, captain of the Gehrigsville all-star team, and you have just won the state title for the fifth year in a row.

The roaring adulation of the crowd, the press of bodies as your teammates dog pile you in celebration – all sweet, to be sure, but none of it is particularly novel anymore. In the six years since you met your habitually absent master, you have grown from a wild, unruly little boy brimming with arrogance into…well, a wild, unruly teenager with skill enough to back up most of his self-regard. The Devil of the Gehrigsville Diamond, they call you, and though it's not the name you would've picked yourself you can't be too upset with it. You haven't been struck out by anyone other than your master in over three years, and while the siren song of baseball is still as captivating as ever you are beginning to feel...restless.

As you and your team make the long walk back to the clubhouse, still flush with victory, you turn your eyes to the horizon. You have not seen your master in nearly six months now, and while that's not the longest he's ever been away, you find yourself more and more annoyed with his absences as your abilities grow.

At first it had been nothing to you if he vanished for a few months, as he always made sure to give you training tasks, goals to meet by the time he returned. You had hit, caught, run, fielded and thrown until your body was like a leaden weight around your soul, until you thought you would drop from sheer exhaustion – but then strength had come to your limbs, piece by agonizing piece. You had learned to tell a change-up from a screwball by the way the laces spun, learned to knock a ball out of the park with any spot on your bat, learned how to steal a base so quickly that it left the defense scratching their heads in confusion. But no matter how strong you got your master remained an unapproachable figure high above you, many times faster and stronger and more skilled than you could ever hope to be.

It was then that his many absences began to irritate you. Your master has never told you where he goes when he leaves Gehrigsville, just waved his hand and spouted nonsense designed to get you off his back. Once you had tried to follow him, but he had given you the slip not a mile outside of town and mocked you relentlessly the next time he returned. You quickly gave up on that idea and turned your attention to assembling an unbeatable baseball team – which, of course, you've now done.

"Hey, Taka, don't look so down!" Your third baseman, Eijiro, throws an arm around your shoulder. "Lighten up a little, my man. We're the champs again!" Your other teammates echo the sentiment, hooting and hollering, and you can't help but smile.

"Yeah, yeah, what else would you expect?" You ask the crowd. "We're the fuckin' greatest!" But even as your team roars their approval, you feel the smile slide a fraction. You clap Eijiro on the shoulder. "Listen, you guys go on ahead," you tell him. "Get the party goin' for me. I'm gonna hang back and bask for a minute."

Eijiro gives you a pensive look, but then he smiles. "Whatever you say, Captain," he says, and then he pulls away. You stand and watch as the team vanishes around a bend in the road, until their voices finally fade into the distance.

You sigh. It is a warm summer night, the stars shining brilliantly up above, and you watch them as you drum your fingers against the handle of your bat.

Your bat. It still feels strange to think of it that way, even six months after your master gave it to you. "Take it," he had said, a mild winter wind rustling his hair. "You swung all your other bats to splinters."

It was true, but you had been suspicious all the same. Your master had never been the gift-giving type, and the bat was beautiful, bamboo wood stained a dark, rich brown with white tape wrapped expertly around the handle. "What, you steal this from somewhere?" You had asked, testing the balance.

"Don't be ridiculous. We're not all devils, you know," your master had replied. The years had sharpened his face and eyes, but he had still worn the same wry smile that had marked him the first time you had ever met. "Well. You may be a devil, but you're still my disciple. You deserve a gift every now and then." And that had been that.

You take a practice swing and begin walking towards the clubhouse, relishing in the steady chirping of cicadas, of the hum of mosquitos in your ear. Perhaps you've been too moody recently. You're the champion after all, undefeated, undefeatable. You are not yet a man who can hit any pitch, but you are far closer than you ever could've dreamed possible. Soon your master will return, and if you still feel so restless, you'll demand that he take you with him, wherever he disappears to.

The song of summer is your companion as you walk, but as you get closer and closer to clubhouse, the song which has so often brought you comfort instead inspires a creeping anxiety. You frown, quickening your pace, trying to think of why you might feel this way. How could the life of a summer night worry you so? Why do the cicadas and mosquitos fill you with a mounting dread?

It is only when you come in sight of the clubhouse that you realize why the song summer sounds so wrong – because it is all that you can hear.

You break into a run. The team should be at the clubhouse now – it should be alive with light and noise. Their celebration should drown the sounds of the night in music and laughter – but there is nothing but grim, cold silence.

You throw open the door with one shoulder, and find your teammates scattered across the floor of the clubhouse. The vast majority are unconscious, laying amongst bits of shattered glass and broken furniture – the rare few still awake are groaning quietly to themselves, hands pressed tightly against bleeding wounds.

"Eijiro!" You find your third baseman propped up in the corner, eyes unfocused, cradling his broken arm. "Eijiro, are you okay?"

"Cap…tain?" Eijiro asks, his voice sounding very far away. "I'm sorry…Captain."

"Sorry for what? What the hell happened?" You tear off a piece of your jersey and begin fastening it into a makeshift sling.

"There were…three of them."

You freeze, too shocked to move. "Three of them?" Three people had defeated your entire all-star team, in the time it had taken you to walk to the clubhouse?

"They were so fast." Eijiro grips at your jersey with his uninjured arm. "We couldn't…couldn't do anything. I'm sorry I-"

"Don't go making stupid apologies, man!" You shout, nearly shaking him before thinking better of it. "I'm gonna kick these guys' asses for this! Who were they? What did they want?"

Eijiro shakes his head and lifts a trembling hand to point at a piece of paper nailed to the wall. You growl and stalk towards it, ripping it from the wall to read the hastily scrawled writing.

To the Devil of the Gehrigsville Diamond,
We heard your team was strong, but it turns out they were weaklings.
We heard you were strong too, but now we're not so sure.
Meet us at the diamond tomorrow at sunrise, and don't think to run away.
We won't hesitate to use our hostage.
-The Komori High Baseball Club

You stare at the note, fury slowly mounting in your chest. A hostage? You whirl, eyes darting from one face to the next, but no…your entire team is still here. Battered and bruised, but nobody is missing. What do they mean by hostage?

It is only then you notice the baseball hat at your feet. You bend down to pick it up, and the fury in your chest leaks up through your throat, until there's a taste like molten bile in your mouth. The hat you hold belongs to…

[] Your little brother
[x] Your little sister
[] Your childhood friend

 

[QTesseract]

[X] Your childhood friend

 

[Solace2117]

[X] Your little sister

Not as interested in the childhood friend since Takahiro's a delinquent. I like the dynamic of the younger sibling. I think the little sister works a bit better.

 

[The Grey Mage]

[X] Your little brother

Every anime delinquent needs a little brother to call them 'Aniki'.

 

[ImprovLoser]

[X] Your little brother

@Gally what does Takahiro look like?

 

[R Besque]

[X] Your little brother

Let's have a bratty little bro.

 

[silentorphan]

[x] Your little sister

There's no way she is this cute. Hopefully.

 

[Birthday]

@Gally what does Takahiro look like?

Click to shrink...

If our mentor is Red, then we obviously look like Gold.

Every anime delinquent needs a little brother to call them 'Aniki'.

Click to shrink...

And you've sold me!
[X] Your little brother

 

[Rowknan]

[X] Your little sister

I want to see a little girl with braces start bullying our entire team.

And personally I'm imagining Takahiro with at least once piercing and dyed blonde hair. Or just looking like a younger Space Dandy.