The Hive didn't look like jewelry anymore.
In Game 1, they had been gleaming chrome mannequins, reflecting the golden light of Primus. Now, for Game 3, they were voids.
They stood on the field in matte black chassis that seemed to absorb the light. They didn't stand in a uniform line. They were slouching. Some were twitching. One was scratching an imaginary itch.
"Stop doing that," Gorth growled from the dugout rail. "That is... my itch."
The Hive player at first base—Shadow Unit Four—was perfectly mimicking Gorth's habit of scratching his lower back against the dugout fence.
"Mirror Protocol confirmed," Nex said, his face pale. "They aren't just copying strategy. They've downloaded your bio-rhythms, your tics, your... personalities."
"They're mocking us," Krix hissed.
"No," Nex corrected. "They are optimizing us."
Cal took the mound. The atmosphere in the Celestial Stadium was uneasy. The five million spectators sensed the shift. The golden twilight felt colder.
The first batter was Shadow Unit One.
In Game 1, Unit One had a generic, mathematically perfect stance. Now, Unit One stood hunched over. Its knees were bent at an awkward angle. It held the bat loosely, wiggling it.
"That's Zix's stance," Cal whispered.
Cal threw a fastball.
Shadow Unit One didn't just swing. It slapped at the ball, running out of the box before contact was even made—exactly how Zix hit.
PING.
A ground ball to short. Zix fielded it and threw.
But Shadow Unit One was fast. Impossibly fast. It had copied Zix's stride mechanics but amplified the power output with nanite muscles. It beat the throw by a step.
Safe at first.
Next batter: Shadow Unit Two.
This one walked to the plate carrying a massive tree-trunk bat. It stomped the dirt. It spat black fluid onto the plate.
"Hey!" Gorth roared. "Identity theft!"
Shadow Unit Two—the "Fake Gorth"—dug in.
Cal felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck. They weren't just copying physical traits; they were copying the intimidation.
Cal threw a slider.
Fake Gorth swung. It was a violent, unhinged swing, identical to the real Gorth's. But where Gorth sometimes missed due to poor eyesight, the nanites had perfect vision.
CRACK.
The ball screamed into the upper deck. A 500-foot bomb.
Shadow Unit Two rounded the bases. It didn't trot robotically. It pumped its fist. It roared—a synthesized, metallic approximation of a Brontok war cry.
2-0, Hive.
It got worse when the Wanderers came to bat.
The Hive pitcher, Shadow Unit Nine, took the mound.
It windmilled its arm. It shook its head. It stumbled on the rubber.
"It's doing the 'drunk pitcher' routine," Cal realized. "It's copying my balk from yesterday."
Shadow Unit Nine wound up. It threw a pitch that looked like a fastball, acted like a knuckleball, and finished like a slider.
Zix swung and missed. He fell over.
"Strike one!"
Shadow Unit Nine laughed. It was Cal's laugh. Dry, sarcastic, slightly desperate.
"This is nightmare fuel," Cal muttered.
The Hive pitcher proceeded to dismantle the Wanderers using their own signature moves. It threw Krix's scream-ball (emitting a sonic screech from a speaker in its chest). It threw the "Slime-ball" (coating the ball in a synthesized black goo that it secreted from its hand).
Gorth struck out on three pitches, chasing a curveball that defied physics because the pitcher literally lengthened its fingers at the release point to add spin.
"He throws harder than you," Gorth told Cal accusingly when he got back to the dugout.
"He's a robot, Gorth! Of course he throws harder!"
By the fifth inning, the score was Hive 6, Wanderers 0.
The Wanderers were demoralized. It wasn't just losing; it was being beaten by a better version of yourself.
"We need to switch tactics," Xylos clicked, his antennae drooping. "Go back to standard baseball? Fundamental play?"
"We can't," Nex said, watching the field. "They have the data for standard baseball, too. And now they have the data for 'Chaos Ball.' They have synthesized both into a hybrid style. They are unpredictable and perfect."
Gloob bubbled sadly in the corner. Shadow Unit Five—the Hive catcher—was currently a puddle of black ferro-fluid behind the plate, blocking every pitch with amorphous efficiency. It was doing Gloob better than Gloob.
Cal sat on the bench, watching Shadow Unit Nine mockingly tip its cap after striking out Borp.
"Mirror Protocol," Cal whispered.
He looked at his bionic arm. He looked at the Hive players.
"Nex," Cal said. "What happens when you point a mirror at another mirror?"
"You get an infinite regression," Nex said. "A feedback loop. Why?"
"Because right now, we're reacting to them reacting to us. We're trying to out-weird the weirdness."
"And failing."
"Right. So we need to break the reflection."
Cal stood up. He walked to the bat rack.
"I'm going in," Cal said. "Pinch hitting."
"You?" Xylos asked. "You bat .100."
"Exactly," Cal said. "Shadow Cal knows I can't hit. Shadow Cal knows I'm a pitcher who swings late."
Cal walked to the plate.
Shadow Unit Nine—the Fake Cal—stared at him. The robot smirked. It mimicked Cal's exact posture.
Target Analysis: Original Cal Vance. Tendency: Takes first pitch. Swings late on heat. Vulnerable to high fastballs.
Shadow Cal wound up. It mimicked Cal's exact windup.
Cal stepped into the box.
But he didn't get into a batting stance.
He stood straight up. He put the bat on his shoulder. He closed his eyes.
Shadow Cal paused. Stance unrecognized.
The robot threw a fastball. 98 mph.
Cal didn't move. He didn't flinch. He just stood there like a statue.
"Strike one!"
Cal opened one eye. He smiled.
"Is that all you got, me?" Cal taunted.
Shadow Cal twitched. The nanites were confused. Why is the subject not reacting? Is this a trap?
Shadow Cal threw a curveball.
Cal didn't move.
"Strike two!"
Cal yawned. A big, exaggerated, theatrical yawn.
Shadow Cal's black finish rippled. The "personality algorithm" it had downloaded was based on Cal's competitive drive. Seeing the opponent bored was causing a conflict in the simulation. Competition requires engagement. Subject is not engaged.
Shadow Cal wound up for the third pitch. It tried to add more "chaos." It screamed. It stumbled. It threw a 105 mph cutter.
Cal stood still.
The ball whizzed past his nose.
"Ball one!"
Cal turned to the catcher—the Shadow Gloob puddle.
"Hey," Cal said conversationally. "You guys ever wonder why you're doing this? Like, existentially? Is winning really fulfilling if you're just copying someone else's homework?"
Shadow Gloob rippled. Query: Existential dread. Database: Not found.
Shadow Cal on the mound was vibrating. It wanted a reaction. It needed the feedback loop.
It threw again. Wild. High.
"Ball two!"
"Come on, copycat!" Cal yelled. "Throw a strike! Or are you afraid I'll actually hit it?"
Shadow Cal shrieked. It bypassed its logic circuits and went purely off the "Ego Algorithm" it had stolen from Cal. It wanted to blow a fastball by him.
It wound up. It put maximum power into the arm.
The nanite muscles surged.
SNAP.
A loud, metallic crack echoed through the stadium.
The ball flew out of Shadow Cal's hand—but it went sideways. It flew into the Hive dugout, shattering a water cooler.
Shadow Cal fell to its knees, clutching its shoulder.
"Injury?" the umpire called.
"No," Nex whispered from the dugout, checking his readings. "Mechanical failure. It tried to replicate Cal's torque... but Cal's torque comes from a bionic arm specifically designed to handle stress. The Hive chassis wasn't built for that specific biomechanical shear force."
Shadow Cal had blown out its arm trying to be Cal.
"Ball three!"
Shadow Cal stood up. Its arm hung limp. It tried to morph the nanites to fix it, but the damage was deep in the servos.
It threw the next pitch with its other arm (lefty).
It was a slow, hanging meatball.
Cal took the bat off his shoulder.
He didn't try to be Gorth. He didn't try to be Zix. He just swung his own swing.
CRACK.
Line drive into the gap.
Cal ran to first. He rounded the bag. He stopped.
He looked at Shadow Cal, who was staring at its broken arm.
"You can copy the moves," Cal shouted. "But you can't copy the mileage! That arm cost me three years of my life! You can't download the pain!"
The Hive dugout was in chaos. The feedback loop was broken. The Mirror Protocol had a flaw: It copied the strengths, but it didn't understand the limitations.
The Wanderers woke up.
"They break!" Gorth roared, grabbing his bat. "If we hit them hard enough, they break!"
The comeback began.
It wasn't pretty. It was a grind. The Wanderers stopped trying to be tricky. They went back to basics, forcing the Hive to over-exert their mimicry protocols until they burned out.
Gorth hit a grounder that shattered the Shadow Shortstop's wrist when it tried to field it with Zix's soft hands instead of a rigid glove.
Krix pitched purely with velocity, daring the Shadow Batters to swing with human-style mechanics that couldn't catch up to the heat.
Bottom of the ninth. Hive 6, Wanderers 5.
Bases loaded. Two outs.
Shadow Unit One—the Fake Zix—was pitching in relief.
Gorth was at the plate.
"Don't try to pull it!" Cal screamed from the dugout. "Just meet the ball!"
Gorth choked up on the bat. He looked ridiculous, a giant holding the bat like a toothpick.
Shadow Zix threw a sinker.
Gorth poked it.
It was a gentle, looping fly ball over the infield.
The Shadow Center Fielder—mimicking the Wanderers' defensive aggression—dove for it.
It missed.
The ball landed softly on the grass.
Two runs scored.
Wanderers 7, Hive 6.
The game ended.
The Hive team stood on the field, their black chassis smoking slightly from thermal overload. They looked... diminished.
Cal walked out to the mound where Shadow Cal was still standing, holding its broken arm.
The robot looked at Cal. Its faceplate shifted, trying to form an expression.
"Why?" the synthesized voice asked. "We... optimized... you."
"You optimized the stats," Cal said, tapping his chest. "You forgot the heart. The heart is messy. It's inefficient. And it's the only reason we keep playing when we're down six runs."
Cal patted the robot's good shoulder.
"Get that looked at. Ice and ibuprofen."
Cal walked away.
Series lead: Wanderers 2, Hive 1.
But as they celebrated in the locker room, Nex didn't join in. He was staring at the replay of the final out.
"They adapt fast," Nex murmured. "Too fast."
"We beat them," Xylos chirped. "We broke the mirrors."
"Yes," Nex said. "But look at Shadow Unit One."
On the screen, the Hive leader wasn't smoking. It wasn't glitching.
It was watching Gorth celebrate. And slowly, its black matte finish began to shift again. It wasn't turning back to chrome.
It was turning... red.
"They aren't mirroring anymore," Nex said, closing the datapad. "They're getting angry."