Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy, her universe or any of the characters or places associated with it. Those, as far as I know, are still the sole property of Joss Whedon. Dee, on the other hand, is mine, at least beyond the ten seconds of screen time that Mr. Whedon gave her in "Chosen." She struck me as someone with a story that needed telling.
Chapter 1.
Dee loved baseball. She could pitch a ball faster and more accurately than anybody she'd ever known. A regular William Tell, her father had called her. Probably because she'd practiced by knocking apples off of her little sister, April's head with her fastball. Her sister, being as ballsy as she was, had dutifully stood thirty feet in front of her in their back yard and allowed Dee to hurl baseballs at her as hard as she could.
She'd had to change her practice methods when she missed once. April wasn't as forthcoming to volunteer as a target after that.
Batting, on the other hand, she hated. She was pretty sure that she could count the number of times she'd made contact with the ball, much less hit it any great distance on one of her hands. The strange thing was she could watch the pitcher and know before the ball left her hand what kind of pitch it was and where it was going to go. But for some reason she couldn't put the bat there to interrupt its trajectory. It was just moving too fast.
She was always nervous at the plate, and she'd never been able to hide it. Actually, she'd never really been able to hide any emotion. They seemed to have made permanent residence on her sleeve.
The pitcher (Dee couldn't quite remember her name; Tracy somethingorother) wound up and hurled the ball at her.
Fastball, Dee's mind dutifully registered, low and far away. The pitcher liked fastballs. Probably because she could throw them so fast. Just watching the game, she had seen her throw about ninety fastballs out of just over a hundred pitches.
The high-pitched whistle of the ball screaming past her just above her knees was nearly drowned out by the heavier, slower whoosh of the bat a fraction of a second later.
Or, more accurately, a fraction of a second too late.
It was disappointing, but not terribly surprising.
Smack! The sound of the ball slamming into the leather of the catcher's mitt was deafening.
Literally.
It was as though a spike had been driven through her eardrums, sending white-hot bolts of pain through her.
"Strike one!" The umpire's voice, normally loud and confident sounded dull and tinny. It was as though she was hearing him through one of those tin can telephones she'd made when she was younger.
thump-THUMP..... thump-THUMP..... thump-THUMP
The slow, rhythmic thumping, like the beating of a distant drum insistantly drilled it's way into her consciousness.
thump-THUMP..... thump-THUMP..... thump-THUMP
Her eyes quickly scanned the spectators. Every once in a while, one or two would bring along a drum. She saw none.
thump-THUMP..... thump-THUMP..... thump-THUMP
It took a moment to realize that she was hearing the steady beating of her own heart. It was beating so slowly, she hadn't realized... That seemed a little odd to her. She was nervous. Shouldn't her heart be pounding faster?
The sound of a second heartbeat superimposed itself over hers, followed by a third and a fourth.
The catcher pulled back and punched her in the stomach.
Or at least, that's what it felt like. The air was released from her lungs in a rush, and a tsunami of nausea rolled over her. She could feel every muscle in her body tensing, as though bracing itself for some kind of impact.
Dee had never been electrocuted, but she imagined that it must feel something like this. It was as though she were immersed in a bath of pure energy. She could feel it surging through her, relentlessly, almost angrily. It raced from her chest out to her fingertips. She felt her back arch as, like a hungry wolf, clawing and scratching, it spread down towards her waist, and down her legs.
Then, just as quickly as... whatever it was... had grabbed her, it let her go. She felt her knees buckle under her weight as she fought to get control over her breathing. Finally, gravity won out, and she collapsed to the ground.
"Are you alright?" She wasn't sure exactly how the umpire came to be standing over her, but his voice still sounded a little weird. Slow, drawn out. It was like a tape player whose batteries were running out. "Do you have eiplepsy?"
"Epilepsy? N-no." Her voice sounded weird too. Whatever had just hit her, she was still feeling the effects. She could hear footsteps off to her right, then she was looking up at the concerned face of her coach.
"Dee? Are you okay? Do you want to sit down for a second?"
"Sit...? No. I'm okay. Just a little hot is all. I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
Dee nodded, finally bringing her breathing under control.
"That's my girl. Okay, show 'em how it's done."
The coach helped Dee stand up and brushed the red dirt off of her uniform. She stepped back up to the plate.
"Play ball!" The umpire called out.
The pitcher didn't waste any time, and hurled the ball at the tiny brunette.
Fastball. High and close. Her mind again called out the pitch before the ball had left the pitcher's hand.
Long, long before.
The pitcher, Tracy, or whatever her name was, was moving painfully slowly. The ball itself spun lazily towards her. It was no longer the white streak it had been for the previous pitch. Dee could see the individual threads on the ball as it rocketed towards the plate.
What's happening? She wondered, has the world slowed down, or have I sped up?
Again, she heard the smack as the ball slammed into the catcher's mitt. She realized that the only reason she hadn't hit it was because she'd forgotten to swing. She could have, though. It was moving so slowly.
"Strike two!"
She could do this. She never could before, but she could now, and she knew it.
As she watched the pitcher wind up again, a small smile spread across her face.
