Hello everyone! I'm so sorry it's been so long since I've uploaded something, but I am working on new things. My previous stories may or may not be removed, and I may not finish them at all, and they will be left in their incomplete state. I'm sorry! :c
But until then, I have two Batter/Zacharie (from the game OFF) one-shots. OFF does not belong to me, but it does belong to Mortis Ghost! I hope you enjoy!
"Let's see how well you can play ball, Zacharie."
Zacharie had long since come to accept the fact that he was naturally a terrible baseball player. Whether it was because his mask obscured his vision, or he just wasn't trying hard enough, it seemed that every area besides the actual bat was a target for the ball. So when his long-time customer suddenly thrust one of his own weapons towards him with his ever-present poker face, all the merchant could do was laugh. Hysterically.
It was quite a while before he could speak again. The Batter was looking at him very strangely; he was positive about that.
"Oh, that's rich," he panted. "I'll save you broken windows, angry Elsens, and fees to tell you that I cannot play ball to save my life." Zacharie reached up underneath his mask to wipe away tears. One arm was hugging his aching stomach, his tall and lanky frame almost doubled over.
The Batter grunted in disagreement. "I'm sure you're not that bad."
"We'll see about that. Who knows what this 'literature' is going to manipulate us into doing."
In Zacharie's hands, the bat felt heavy and useless, clunky and silly, just like his expression underneath his mask. His pitcher was standing several feet away from him on what he had designated pitcher's mound. The spot was marked with a semi-flat sheet of bad-quality metal from Zone 1, even though the ground itself wasn't exactly level either, and he was mildly impressed that the Batter remained so stable.
The ball and the bat were the only things that were not makeshift. Why the other man had held onto a baseball for so long, Zacharie couldn't quite say, but he supposed it was for sentimental purposes. The Batter did not even bother with a glove, though neither did the merchant, out of pure scarcity. Gloves were not a necessity when there were hardly ever proper weather patterns.
"Bend your knees," the Batter scolded. His voice and face were so emotionless Zacharie had to crack a smile, but he did as he was told. He gave the bat a few practice swings, trying to get the feel of the weapon in his unaccustomed hands.
Faster than he could blink, the ball was thrown, and it flew right past the reach of the hastily-swung bat. Zacharie's face burned red, but he simply laughed it off.
"Does your ball have a magnet in it? It would make sense; the ground is made of metal, after all."
"No." the Batter replied bluntly. The masked man chuckled again and shrugged.
After fetching the ball and tossing it back to the "pitcher", Zacharie tried several more times to at least catch the sphere with the tip of the bat, but to no avail. His arms were getting tired from relentlessly swinging the weapon, as well as tossing back the horribly missed ball. At last, he groaned and flopped down onto the ground beneath him.
"I give up," he declared. "My author is also far too lazy to force me to attempt again, but that is a lesser matter."
"You're awful," the Batter stated in return. He strode towards Zacharie, then past him to pick up the abandoned baseball. He brushed it off, then tucked it away into God knows where.
"And you were vaguely tickling the hope of having a fellow player, weren't you?"
"I was."
There was a shrug exchanged between the two men. Zacharie handed the Batter his weapon back with a rueful, hidden smile.
"If anything else, I might be able to make some progress if we try again sometime."
"Because I'm going to put up with your failure time and time again?"
"You have to if the puppeteer says so."
END.