The fourth inning started with a pitch that lacked any dignity.
The batter was "The Hammer," a power hitter boosted by chemicals, with forearms as thick as holiday hams. He was ready for a fastball at 95 mph. He was coiled and prepared to unleash his strength.
Cal threw the ball at 48 miles per hour.
It was not just slow; it was painful to watch. The ball arched high into the dome's controlled atmosphere, peaked at about twelve feet, and then descended toward the plate like a confused pigeon.
The Hammer began his swing. He halted. He waited. He twitched. Then he swung again.
The ball finally came. The Hammer was so far ahead in his timing that he twisted into a corkscrew, causing his helmet to slide over his eyes.
"Strike one!"
Laughter rippled through the luxury boxes. It was not cheering—it was ridicule.
"What was that?" The Hammer shouted, stepping out of the batter's box. "Is this a joke?"
"It's called an Eephus," Cal replied, retrieving the ball from Borp. "Grandpa's favorite. Want to see it again?"
He didn't throw it again. Instead, he threw a screwball that moved away from the lefty hitter—an almost impossible motion helped by the synthetic torque in his wrist. The Hammer weakly grounded out to first base.
For the next four innings, Cal Vance didn't pitch in a traditional sense. He threw junk.
He tossed sliders that wobbled. He sent sinkers that hit the dirt two feet in front of the plate, tricking the eager hitters into swinging at low pitches. He threw the "Dead Fish" change-up three times in a row to the same batter, gradually slowing it down by 2 mph each time until the batter threw his bat in frustration.
The scoreboard stayed unchanged: Sentinels 1, Wanderers 0.
But the mood had shifted. The Sentinels were getting angry. They were genetically designed for peak performance. They had practiced against pitching machines that delivered perfect, consistent speed. They had no experience with "junk thrown by a washed-up minor leaguer."
"Throw the ball, Vance!" Tyrel yelled from the dugout steps in the bottom of the sixth. "Stop playing catch!"
Cal stepped off the mound, wiped sweat from his forehead, and looked at his cousin.
"The scoreboard shows zero for you guys since the first inning, Ty," Cal shouted back. "Check the math."
Tyrel's face turned red. He grabbed his glove and stormed to the bullpen to warm up.
Top of the eighth. The tension in the dome was thick.
Tyrel was still delivering a brilliant performance. He had struck out fourteen Wanderers. Gorth seemed like he was wielding a toothpick against a lightning bolt. Krix had hissed so much in frustration that he looked like he might evaporate.
"We need a baserunner," Xylos clicked, his antennae vibrating nervously. "We need chaos."
The manager glanced down the bench. "Gloob."
The green slime creature looked up from his bucket.
"Grab a bat," Xylos ordered. "You're pinch hitting for the shortstop."
Gloob oozed out of the dugout. The immaculate white crowd gasped. They had seen aliens on TV, but witnessing a three-foot mass of sentient slime waddling toward the plate in high definition was something else.
Tyrel stood on the mound. He looked at Gloob. Then he looked at the umpire.
"You're kidding," Tyrel said, his voice picked up by the field mics. "I have to pitch to... that?"
"Batter is eligible," the umpire declared.
Gloob lacked a strike zone. He barely had a shape. He flowed into the batter's box, forming a rough pyramid-like structure. He held the bat suspended in his gooey upper body.
Tyrel scoffed. "Great. Cleanup on aisle three."
Tyrel wound up. He didn't want to touch the blob. He aimed to throw three strikes by him.
He delivered a fastball right down the middle.
Gloob didn't swing. He expanded.
SPLAT.
The 103 mph fastball struck Gloob right in the center. It didn't hurt him; Gloob had no real nervous system. The ball simply lodged itself in his chest with a wet thwack.
"Hit by pitch!" the umpire shouted. "Take your base!"
Tyrel gaped. "He leaned into it! He... grew into it!"
"Take your base," the umpire insisted.
Gloob waddled to first base, the ball still embedded inside him, visible through his translucent skin like an insect caught in amber.
"Ball!" Tyrel hollered at the first base umpire. "I need the ball back!"
Gloob burbled. He contracted his chest (or whatever he had) and ejected the ball. It landed on the pristine white turf, covered in thick, neon-green slime.
Tyrel stared at the ball. He glanced at his hand. He looked at the ball boy.
"I'm not touching that," Tyrel said. "Get a new one."
The ball boy scurried out. But Gloob shook himself like a wet dog, spraying micro-droplets of slime onto the first base bag.
Tyrel was rattled—not because of the runner, but due to the mess. The perfect Apollo Dome was being stained.
"Time out!" Tyrel yelled. "Somebody wipe off the bag!"
As the grounds crew hurried out with towels, Cal watched from the dugout. He saw Tyrel pacing, wiping his hands on his jersey and checking his cleats for imaginary dirt.
"He's a germaphobe," Cal realized. "Or a perfectionist. He hates messes."
Cal turned to Gorth, who was on deck.
"Gorth," Cal said.
"Yes, tiny pitcher?"
"When you step up there... stir up some dirt. Make it messy."
Gorth grinned, his stone teeth grinding together. "I like messy."
Play resumed. Gloob stood on first, shimmering. Zix (who had re-entered via a double-switch) was up. He attempted a bunt.
It was a terrible bunt, but Tyrel wouldn't field it. He stood back, waiting for his catcher to get it, too scared of the slime residue Gloob might have left on the path.
Safe at first. Gloob waddled to second.
Runners on first and second. No outs.
And Gorth took his turn at bat.
The Brontok didn't step in gently. He stomped. He drove his massive cleats into the expensive, genetically modified moss, tearing up huge clumps of turf. He kicked dirt over home plate. He spat—a giant glob of purple saliva—right onto the batter's box line.
Tyrel watched in growing horror. The order of his game was collapsing.
"Play ball!"
Tyrel glared at Gorth. He wanted to end the at-bat. He aimed to strike out the monster and get back to the clean locker room.
He gripped the ball too tightly.
He threw the curveball.
Normally, Tyrel's curve dropped 12 inches. But he was furious. He rushed his throw. The ball stayed high.
It remained at belt level.
Gorth didn't miss a belt-high pitch.
He swung with raw power, not technique.
KRA-KOOM.
The sound was so loud it triggered the sound-dampening systems in the luxury suites.
The ball didn't just travel far. In the 0.9 gravity, hit with Brontok strength, it soared. It flew by the outfielders, the upper deck, and the lights.
It struck the diamond-glass roof of the dome, three hundred feet above the ground.
CLANG.
The ball ricocheted off a support beam and came crashing back down.
The center fielder—a human with bionic legs—ran in circles, trying to track the ball as it plummeted from the sky. It fell for six seconds. Seven seconds.
"I got it! I got it!"
He didn't get it.
The ball landed ten feet behind him, bouncing high off the turf.
Gloob scored from second. Zix scored from first, sprinting like a cheetah.
Gorth thundered around the bases. He didn't stop at second. He didn't stop at third. He rounded home, looking like a runaway freight train.
The relay throw came in. It was going to be close.
The catcher, a hefty human in titanium gear, stood guard at the plate.
Gorth didn't slide.
BOOM.
The collision resembled a car crashing into a wall. The catcher flew backward. The ball rolled free.
Gorth stepped on home plate and brushed off his hands.
Wanderers 3, Sentinels 1.
The dome fell silent, except for the wild, screeching celebration from the alien dugout.
Tyrel Vance stood on the mound. He was no longer checking his nails. He was staring at the torn-up grass, the slime on first base, and the massive Brontok footprint on home plate.
Cal walked to the dugout's top step. He caught Tyrel's eye.
Cal tipped his cap.
Welcome to the circus, cousin.