Issue Maker (2)
Ryan Smith.
Once a ballplayer in the NLB, he had long since hung up his cleats and reinvented himself as a scout, still working the game he loved. He and Randy Jones had been close friends, too.
And right now, Ryan was sitting in Hanbat Baseball Stadium.
Mr. Park and Mr. Ryu both came out of this club.
Years ago he had once poached Ryu Yeon-jin from Hanha and brought him over to the LA franchise he worked for. The team finished dead last almost every season — and yet, somehow, it kept producing outstanding pitchers. A strange little franchise.
Ryan settled in for the game with the same quiet anticipation he always brought.
Hmm. A celebrity? She's beautiful.
Before every game came the ceremonial first pitch, and today a rare kind of beauty stepped up onto the mound.
Those eyes, too — a gorgeous yellow. If her English were solid, Hollywood would eat her up.
Even from this distance, even watching her on the jumbotron, the woman on the mound radiated beauty.
A brief interview wrapped, and she was left alone on the rubber.
Oh? She's throwing from the mound itself? Must have played ball before — or else she's just that confident in her arm.
The glove on her hand, he noticed, sat the way a left-hander's did.
What is this?
A flicker of recognition. Something about the way she prepared for the pitch felt uncannily familiar.
I know this…
The answer hit him almost at once.
CRACK!!!
A monstrous pop of leather — and Ryan Smith shot to his feet as if the seat had burned him.
"Randy…?"
He remembered. The little routine in her setup. And that arm slot — not quite sidearm, a touch higher. A low three-quarter delivery, the kind that had once fired absolute heat and left batter after batter shaking their heads.
And here it was again, right here in Korea.
"Ha…. Randy…. Are you watching?" he murmured skyward, roughly in English. "There's a pitcher down here just like you…. So…. rest easy up there now…."
Randy Jones was, for the record, still very much alive and well.
Athletes are born with a special kind of sense.
Call it a sixth sense for the abnormal. Call it a radar for crisis. Whatever the name, it is real.
So who felt it first?
The catcher receiving the ceremonial pitch.
?
The catcher registered something wrong.
?
Then the batter.
?
Then the umpire.
From there it was pure conditioned reflex, drilled in by years of the game.
Ara's body coiled. Her arm whipped through after it like the crack of a lash. The ball left her hand.
!!!
Worst possible location for a right-handed hitter. A pitch that started outside and drove in on a laser line, deep into the heart of the strike zone.
The batter who had come out for the ceremonial at-bat had no choice but to bail — even though the ball was coming in for a strike.
THWACK!!!
"Striiiiike!!!"
For a split second the umpire forgot it was a ceremonial pitch, threw his right hand high, and called it.
In that instant, the entire stadium froze solid.
After that little incident, interest in Gil Ara only burned hotter.
None of it, however, had anything to do with her actual job.
This was a Korean pro baseball community.
???: No, this is my first time. I'm a little nervous.
Haa—
Jeong Yeo-un, who had never cared about baseball in his life, scrolled through the baseball community and let out a long sigh. At this point they were demanding explanations for every last thing under the sun.
Right. Why didn't I think of that?
Ha-yeong had flat-out forbidden games — and yet here he was, realizing too late that even a ceremonial first pitch still counted as something under the "games" umbrella.
Slurp—
Beside him, Ara was quietly sipping an iced coffee.
Jeong Yeo-un looked back at the monitor. A clip of Ara's first pitch was looping on endless repeat.
I'm going to lose my mind.
He had begged her not to cause trouble. The problem was he couldn't even tell whether this counted as trouble.
No, seriously — how did she do that?
Every time he thought he had a handle on her, something new came bursting out. She was his own talent, an actress no less, and still…
What is she, an onion? Peel one layer and another one just keeps showing up?
Whether she noticed his mood or not, Jang Min-a was having a field day next to them.
"Ara!"
"Yes."
"Have you been working out? How on earth did you do that?"
"……"
"Anyway! Want to try taekwondo??? I'll teach you!!"
"Ah — yes."
He'd forgotten: Jang Min-a was a fourth-dan black belt in taekwondo.
Lady. Read the room.
Ara thought it privately and answered on autopilot.
"Hahahahahahaha!!!!"
Jeong Yeo-un suddenly burst out laughing like a man unhinged.
"Ara!! I've got great news!!! Hahahahahaha!!!"
"Sorry? Great news?"
That seemed extremely unlikely.
"Yes! Our company just laid the groundwork for its first overseas expansion!!!"
"……?"
"Sure, it has absolutely nothing to do with entertainment, but who cares!? I don't even know anymore!"
Hahahahaha—!
Jeong Yeo-un roared with laughter.
Hohohohoho!
Jang Min-a laughed along, delighted at the discovery of a new talent.
Hahahaha….
Ara, reading the room carefully, offered a stiff little laugh of her own.
"Oh, right! Ara!"
"Yes?"
Still laughing, Jeong Yeo-un suddenly called her name again.
"You got an offer from Invincible Baseball?! Hahaha! Want to do it? Just say the word! From now on, do whatever you want!"
I don't even know anymore!
That was more or less how it sounded to Ara.
Hmm. Should I actually try it? Sounds fun.
Either way, that was a conversation for after she finished shooting the next film without incident. She had no intention of jumping on it right now.
"CEO. Is there anything else?"
"Hm? What?"
"Like… games, or something……?"
"…There is."
Jeong Yeo-un's voice shrank into his throat.
!
During the interview before her first pitch, Ara had stated it outright: her only hobby was gaming. That had been deliberate, too.
Physical stuff is a pain, but games are a whole different story.
"Show me."
"Uh? Y-yeah……."
He handed her the compiled file like a man surrendering a weapon.
……!
Back home, Ara had been checking the public mood when she found that post. Hundreds of comments were stacked under it.
When had it started?
"It is weird, though."
The first real doubt had hit when her third keyboard shattered. Keyboards did not break that easily. Even a grown man would struggle to snap one clean in half, wouldn't he?
She'd had questions — and she hadn't bothered digging into them. Because it was annoying. And if she was strong, well, strong was good.
Then, much later—
What the hell is this.
She had split a table clean in two. A fairly sturdy table. Her own hand, meanwhile, was completely fine.
And still she hadn't checked.
That was where it went wrong. No — it had been going wrong for a long time already. Well… "wrong" wasn't quite the right word, but still.
Why hadn't she checked sooner?
A skill that temporarily borrows a target's emotions and physical movement patterns into one's own body.
That was all it was. It had nothing to do with raw physical ability.
Think about it simply. Say she successfully ran a special feature on a superhero — would she suddenly be able to use that hero's powers? Absolutely not. That was the kind of nonsense that only worked in comics and novels.
"Hmm…?"
Ara suddenly realized something.
"I was in no position to talk. Special features don't make any sense either."
Anyway. The point was this: the skill only copied how a body moved. The actual physical capacity still depended entirely on her own body.
"Let's experiment."
Time to find the limits.
It had already been well over half a year since she started living again. Reflecting on how little attention she had paid to herself in all that time, Ara started loosening up.
"Flexibility first."
Stretch—
Muscle fibers began to tear under her command.
"Wait…. This works?"
And then her legs unfolded into a perfect split, as natural as breathing. Folding forward over them was no problem either. Physical ability no one would believe belonged to someone who had never exercised a day in her life.
She tried a few more positions after that.
"Alright…. Next…."
The real ones: strength. And stamina.
Stamina she could test by running outside. Strength, though?
Fortunately, the officetel she had just moved into had a residents-only gym. She was already registered. All she had to do was walk in.
So Ara changed clothes, disguised herself thoroughly so no one would recognize her, laced up brand-new sneakers that still smelled of the box, and headed out.
.
.
.
"Whew……. That's enough running."
Sweat beaded and ran down her face — but she hadn't stopped because she was exhausted. She had covered roughly ten kilometers. Her time: about forty-eight minutes. Extremely fast for a first outing.
I could have kept going, but I've got other things to test.
Next: strength.
Ara swapped shoes and stepped into the residents-only gym. A trainer was on duty, but he was deep in his own workout and never noticed her arrive.
She looked around, then fell into thought.
How does any of this work?
Ara was completely clueless about exercise.
Ah, whatever. Just slap the metal plates on and lift the bar, right?
A dangerous line of thinking.
When it comes to lifting, it's gotta be the bench press!
She confidently loaded twenty kilos onto each side of the bar.
"So that's forty kilos? Should be about right."
Apparently the bar itself was free, courtesy of the ancestors.
After a few half-hearted arm circles, Ara lay down on the bench and set her hands on the bar. Anyone watching would have called the form sloppy and dangerous. Ara had no idea anything was wrong.
Hup—
She was just about to push when—
"Ma'am!!! You're going to hurt yourself like that!!!!!"
In the end, Ara had successfully cast Summon Trainer.