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Shinigami Baseball
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Kurosaki Ichigo did not enjoy answering the door, because each time he answered the door, something bad happened. For example, there was that one time in fourth grade, when he opened the front door eagerly and was hit in the face by an over enthusiastic Tasuki, intent on splintering said door with her obnoxious knocking. More recently, he had been met by Urahara Kisuke carrying a dozen pounds of salt and pears, Abarai Renji in a tank with a semi-automatic machine gun, and Kenpachi Zaraki with half a GPS, to name a few.
Now, whenever the doorbell rang, or whenever someone knocked, Kurosaki Ichigo hid under his bed. There is no shame in that of course, no shame at all. Unless someone else was home. Then the annoying little voice some call a conscious and others the onset of schizophrenia would demand he grit his teeth and pull open the cursed door.
Such was the case one July morning. The doorbell sounded and his wonderful little sisters that could be less than wonderful most of the time glanced expectantly at him.
"Who is it?" grumbled a previously content Kurosaki Ichigo, or at least as content as anyone who knew the world as he knew it could all come crashing down at any moment could manage.
"Ah… Kurosaki-san. Nice to see you again," a very nervous Yamada Hanataro stammered.
"Oh. It's you," Ichigo relaxed. Yamada Hanataro was a nice guy. He couldn't possibly drag him into the same kind of trouble Kenpachi and the dismembered GPS did. "What's up?"
"Ah… Kurosaki-san. I'm really, really sorry."
Ichigo frowned slightly and looked past the hapless seventh seat in time to see a grinning Ichimaru Gin and a slightly apologetic Ukitake Juushiro glancing back at him. In baseball uniforms. That was the last thing he registered as a dull crack sounded and the world spun round and round.
When he came to, the great substitute shinigami, who had mastered bankai in three days and became a vizard nearly unscathed, found himself in the middle of a baseball field.
"Wh-whatzis?" he muttered, still groggy.
"Ah… sorry Kurosaki-san," stammered out an embarrassed Hanataro. "You see… We were going to play baseball, but then we were short one person and well… Kurosaki-san doesn't live that far off and…"
He trailed off as Ichigo noted that he himself now wore a black baseball uniform and he shook his head quickly, not wanting to think how that had happened. "So… what now?" He really should be angrier. It was short of kidnapping, what they had done. They really could have asked. But being the understanding, sentimental kind of guy he was, he forgave them all. Well… maybe not Ichimaru Gin. If memory served correct, the man had not let him say two words to him before cracking him over the head with a bat. A metal bat. His head still rang loudly from that.
"Now we wait for Aizen-sama to quit arguing with the guy in the hat," grumbled Grimmjaw, popping up beside them in the same black uniform Ichigo wore.
"Arguing about what?"
"Well… Aizen-sama doesn't think it's fair that we have to have a player who took a crack on the head and hat guy thinks it's plenty fair. If you ask me, I think the creep hit you on the head purposely, whatever he claims."
"It was an accident. Really."
Ichigo glared at the new addition to their conversation, who was nonchalantly glancing off in the general direction the yelling was coming from.
"Um… I-Ichimaru-san," stammered Hanataro. "Ah… with all due respect, you sort of swung the bat at him. Really hard."
"A slip of the hand. One gets sick of carrying a metal bat."
"I… ah… I heard you wager with Ukitake-taicho how hard you could hit him."
"A joke, a jest. Nothing serious."
"Um… if you say so, Ichimaru-san."
Ichigo's pounding head cleared enough for one thought to pass through. He had to get out of there. And fast. His sanity may just depend on it. "Ah… look. Gin…er, I mean Ichimaru, look, I really need to get going. You know… um… I need to… water the… I need to water the prunes." The moment those words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them straight back.
"Water. Prunes." Grimmjaw repeated the words slowly, individually, as if trying to conjure up a mental picture. "Water. Prunes."
Hanataro gave him the lost puppy look. "But Kurosaki-san… We really need another player."
He could have just ignored Hanataro. He could have gotten past Grimmjaw while the arrancar was still in his daze. And he secretly thought that if he ran really fast in the opposite direction while Ichimaru Gin was looking for his metal bat, he could get away. It was feasible; it was doable. But his nobler self hesitated. And a hand grabbed a tuft of his orange hair he so dearly treasured, though he would not admit it to save his life, and dragged him toward the dugout.
"R-Rukia!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"
He thought he faintly heard Ichimaru mutter "well, that works too", but concentrated on the Kuchiki lady instead.
A glint entered Kuchiki Rukia's eye as she announced. "To 'play ball', Ichigo. It is my job to observe, experience, and report on the world of the living and what better way than to participate in a friendly game of 'baseball'?"
A dull thud sounded as Kurosaki's jaw hit the ground. "Do you see a 'friendly' person out there, Rukia?"
The addressed frowned slightly, but only adopted the cross stubborn look many women adopted when they thought they would not succeed in manipulating men to do as they wish.
"Look! Look! There's Aizen and Urahara snapping each other's heads off. There's got to be half the Espada here. And all the shinigami you have here are the ones with psychological complexes made just for them. And… oh no. Tell me that isn't Ganju."
"Only three of the Espada are here," corrected Rukia crossly, not refuting anything else.
Ichigo opened his mouth to protest more, but was met by a sudden stampede his seven other "teammates" charged into the dugout, dodging baseballs that seemed more like oversized bullets pelted by the pitcher's mound.
"Let's play ball!" cheered Urahara far too cheerfully. They had obviously finished arguing.
Aizen Sosuke, the great Aizen Sosuke who would lead the arrancar to destroy the world an rebuild it to his own liking, stuck his head out of the dugout, narrowly missing a ball that burrowed itself five feet into solid wood beside him, and yelled, "Are you trying to kill us, Gin?"
"You said 'play ball'," yelled the pitcher back defensively.
"Key word is 'play', Ichimaru!" Tousen joined his idolized leader in yelling at his co-conspirator, though from the safety of the furthest reaches of the dugout. The path to least bloodshed, right? And it would be just fine if his blood wasn't shed.
"Not 'kill everyone in sight', you fox-faced freak!" joined in Abarai Renji.
The black team learned a very important lesson that day: The steel fences of dugouts do not stop 300 mph pitches.
"Well," said Ukitake merrily, always the peacekeeper. "Renji's face is… healing. So we need someone else to go first."
Those words sounded ominously like "we need someone else to feed to the half-starved hollows".
Somehow, he was not sure how, but somehow, Kurosaki Ichigo was pushed out of the dugout, with a flimsy helmet that he was sure would offer no protection whatsoever and a bat that he doubted could stand up to those bullets disguised as baseballs. Before he knew it, he was standing at home plate, the bat lifted hesitantly, standing between Yammy, who was wearing a catcher's mask that was far too small, and Ichimaru Gin, who was smirking more than usual. The ball left his hand and Kurosaki Ichigo knew, in the back of his mind, that it was going to be a long day indeed.
