Crossfire

"Hey, Daesik. Catch a few for me real quick."

"Y-yes, sir? All of a sudden?"

"Yeah. I want to try throwing like that."

I couldn't hold back the urge to throw it right then and there, so I put the request to O Daesik.

"But, hyung. Your call-up to the first team is basically locked in, isn't it? Why bother…"

"Come on, I've got my reasons. Just get over here."

It would look strange. Of course it would. But I didn't have time to explain every detail. I wanted to test this as fast as possible, before morning practice started.

I hounded Daesik down to the pitching practice area. He grumbled the whole way, but still gathered up his gear and suited up.

"Hyung… you're a starting pitcher. Crossfire is usually more of a bullpen thing."

"Why?"

"The whole point is the unfamiliarity, right? Once the lineup turns over once, that edge is gone. It stops meaning anything."

Actually, that works for me.

My plan was simple. Crush them with my regular fastball patterns through the first time through the order, then switch to Crossfire from the second time on and face them for another full turn. Get through two times around somehow, and whatever outs were left after that… well. I'd leave those to pure luck.

Still better than gambling from the moment the order flipped.

"I'll catch for you since you want to try it, but the control is going to be a lot harder than you think."

"Figured as much."

"Your first-team start is coming up soon, isn't it? Can you lock in the command by then?"

I already knew that. Twisting your ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠body like that and still expecting easy control was a fantasy.

But… I had something I was counting on.

"We'll just have to try."

I said it with a little smile.

"Hey, Daesik. I'll buy you a whole tub of protein powder. Deal?"

Daesik snorted a laugh.

"Yes, sir."

Just like that, the grumbling stopped and he switched into full sunny-mode. The guy was transparent.

That pitcher earlier… he planted his foot about here.

I called up the footage I'd watched and marked out where my left foot should land. Then I ran through a few shadow pitches first.

A soft rustle of movement.

Mimicking the motion once, I felt a slightly unfamiliar sensation—different from my usual delivery.

I might need to apply force a little differently.

A few more shadow pitches and I roughly had the idea. Because the body angle itself was falling off to the side, the drive forward was weaker—but that left more room to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rotate the hips and waist, so I could cover the difference with stronger rotational power.

"Here it comes. Fastball."

I gave the sign, and Daesik pulled on his mask and spread the mitt wide.

First pitch, about seventy percent.

"Hup!"

With my right foot stretched out, my whole body was angled maybe thirty degrees to the right. Hip rotation kicked in, and the upper body I'd held back as far as possible created a powerful coil. The hips finished facing the catcher fully; the upper body uncoiled and the rotational drive took over.

My arm accelerated, and the ball came with it, gathering speed.

And then—

Now!

I timed the explosion of force and fired the ball forward.

A sharp hiss cut the air.

The ball shot out fast. Even to the naked eye, you could see the angle—like a frisbee flung in from the side, boring in on a diagonal.

But…

A heavy thud.

"Tch."

The pitch sailed so far outside that Daesik had no chance of catching it. I smacked my lips and managed an awkward smile.

Yeah. This is hard.

But it was too early to be disappointed.

"Going again."

I picked up another ball and set myself. Even after that first pitch had gone wildly off, Daesik quietly opened the mitt again—probably thinking about the protein powder he'd been promised.

"Hup!"

I threw with the same feel as before.

But one thing was different—

Okay!

An alert I normally would have hated—this time, I cheered for it on the inside.

A fifty percent wild pitch rate.

What mattered was this: the Status Window's idea of a "wild pitch" was a meatball—a pitch that drilled dead center into the mitt.

In most situations that was a pure penalty. Right now, it was something else entirely.

Even with an unfamiliar delivery, even when I could barely control my own body, half the balls I threw would still land in the strike zone.

And sure enough, the moment the ball left my hand—

A solid pop.

It buried itself right where Daesik held the mitt open: dead center of the strike zone.

That's what I'm talking about.

A grin spread across my face as I watched the pitch paint a perfect diagonal line into the zone.

Daesik seemed a little stunned by it too—he held the mitt in place for a second, savoring the residual sting.

"Whoa…"

He tossed the ball back with a sound of pure admiration.

"Well?"

"You put it in the zone on the second try?"

"Obviously. I told you it works."

I said it, set up again, and threw.

A sharp hiss.

A vicious crack exploded out of Daesik's mitt—I'd put a little more into that one.

Pop.

Pop.

A heavy thud.

Pop.

The sound of balls smacking the wall and burying into the mitt traded places back and forth.

Plenty of pitches still flew off wherever they wanted, slamming into the wall—but every time the alert fired—

—the ball got vacuumed straight into the heart of the strike zone.

Half of them, the Status Window plants for me… so if I can put even half of the remaining half in myself, that's more than enough.

There was no way this was impossible. Shaky command didn't matter. Broken balance didn't matter. The system was correcting half of it either way.

The ball leaving my fingertips grew more familiar with every throw. Arm rotation, the coil through the waist, the timing of the plant—my body was adapting to the new delivery, piece by piece.

And then—

"Slider."

A long, slicing hiss.

"Whoa—!"

A soft tick.

I tried a slider on a whim, and Daesik couldn't glove it cleanly. The ball grazed the mitt and rolled across the dirt.

"Hyung, that just now… that was a slider?"

"Yeah."

"Damn… look at that angle. It's coming in completely from the side."

Daesik lifted the mitt and laughed.

"Hitters are going to think it's heading straight for their bodies."

The four-seam's angle was already vicious—but the slider's was something else entirely. If the four-seam felt like it was flying at a hitter's body before burying itself in the zone, the slider looked like it was coming out from behind the hitter's back and diving into the zone.

Even if it caught the middle of the plate, I couldn't imagine a hitter seeing it for the first time actually putting wood on it.

One more test. I raised my glove and called the pitch.

"Changeup."

The pitch the organization had sealed away. The changeup.

"What?!"

Daesik knew that history too. He startled and dropped the mitt.

"Hyung, didn't they tell you not to throw that?"

But with the body I had now, it didn't matter.

Why had they sealed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the changeup in the first place? Because twisting the arm that hard put strain on the body and wrecked the mechanics.

And I don't get injured anymore anyway.

"It's fine. Just once."

"Ah… what is with this hyung all of a sudden."

He grumbled, but he still lifted the mitt for me.

I took the changeup grip for the first time in a long while and set my stance. Forcing the arm to twist felt like it had been ages—but this was just a test.

"Hup!"

I bent the arm hard inward and shoved the ball out like I was pushing it away. That final catch of the pinky as the ball left—that feeling. It had been a long time.

A soft hiss.

It came in on the same angle as the others, boring in from a right-handed hitter's inner half—then seemed to freeze for a heartbeat, changed planes, and dropped.

A dull thump.

After so long away from it, the command was definitely off. It bounced and kicked away behind him.

"Movement's good, though."

The location was rough, but the action itself was satisfying.

Every test was done. All that remained was endless practice.

I kept throwing, locking in the feel, until Daesik caught one last pitch, pulled off his mask, and stood up.

"Hyung. Hyung. That's enough. I have to go."

"What, is it already that late?"

I checked the clock. It was a little past nine-thirty.

Developmental squad practice usually started at ten.

Which meant O Daesik—a developmental player—had helped me with a session that might not even mean anything, right up until the edge of his own training time.

I peeled off my glove, caught my breath, and picked up the water bottle I'd left standing by the cage.

Cold water ran down my throat, and the heat burning through me settled a little.

"Yeah, go on. Before the coach chews you out again."

"Yes, sir. And don't be late for breakfast yourself, hyung."

Daesik grinned as he stripped off the catcher's gear. Remembering the protein promise, he added at the end, "You really do have to buy that for me!"

"I know, I know. Get going."

I laughed and waved him off.

Only after Daesik disappeared down ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the corridor did silence settle back over the pitching cage.

A ball that had rolled up against my foot caught my eye.

I bent down and picked it up slowly.

With Daesik gone, I stared at the empty strike zone.

A casual whip of the arm.

A pitch thrown with no particular care got sucked straight into the heart of the strike zone.

Not bad, Blockhead Thrower.