Full Count, Part 1

Posted on Thu Oct 16th, 2025 @ 2:44am by Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard & Lieutenant Nelar

1,356 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Tales of the Twenty-Third Century
Location: Houma, Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana, Earth
Timeline: 2378

The field in Houma shimmered in the late light, a September sun sliding down over the bayou, the air heavy with salt and rust, and the thick smell of grass cut short the morning before.

The Plaquemines Pirates wore white pants streaked with dirt, black shirts with red block letters. Their caps looked a little too big for some heads and too tight on others. They were all twelve years-old, mostly, except the girl on the mound with a tumble of red curls stuffed under her cap. She threw like somebody twice her age.

The bleachers held thin crowds: mothers shading their eyes with a hand, fathers leaning forward with elbows on knees, little siblings crawling under the benches with snowcones dripping coloured syrup onto their shirts. The Terrebonne Mudbugs' side was louder, hollering encouragement, whole dugout pounding the fence with fists.

It was the bottom of the ninth inning. One out. No one on. Score knotted at four runs apiece. Both teams knew what the result meant. Winner heads to Baton Rouge next Sunday to play the Rapides Rebels in the state tournament. Loser slogs back home to face the St. Martin Senators on Tuesday, playing for a district crown nobody much remembered in five years' time.

Gideon crouched behind the plate, sweat gathering beneath the ridge of his catcher's mask. His shin guards were caked with dirt and chalk, his chest protector hanging loose like it was borrowed from someone two sizes bigger--and it was. He spat into the dirt, settled the mask low, and gave their pitcher, Grace, the signal: calm down, bring it lower.

The batter stepping up was Draper--skinny, shaved head, serious as a drowning. The Mudbugs cheered his name like he was already halfway around the bags. His bat hung loose at his side, his eyes narrowed.

Beyond the chain-link, cicadas rattled in the weeds.

Grace kicked dirt from her cleats. Her first throw sailed high and wide, the ball kissing the dirt against the backstop befor ethe holographic umpire High and outside. The holographic umpire behind Gideon, already flickering at the shoulders, made the call: "Ball one."

Gideon rose slightly, pounded the mitt once, and signaled again. Grace nodded back, the curls at the base of her neck damp with sweat. He repeated the signal: a quick hand, steady he could--breathe, lower.

She wound up, her freckled arm a metronome, and sent the next one straight down the middle. It split the middle of the zone clean as a plumb line. Draper stood still. Strike one. A cheer went up from the Pirates' dugout, ragged but very earnest.

He twirled the bat once, took a couple of practice hacks. She came again, this time with her slider. Gideon could see the faint tremor in her wrist as she snapped it loose, the ball tumbling end over end, then cutting low just before the plate. Draper chased it and missed. Strike two.

The sound of it--the bat slicing wind, ball thudding into leather with that satisfying sound--seemed to echo inside Gideon’s skull. He glanced at Grace, saw the faintest smile flicker across her face.

The Pirates' dugout erupted. "That's it, Gracie! Burn 'em down!"

Opposite them, the Mudbugs hollered warnings: "Keep your eye on it, Drapes! Don't swing at junk!"

Grace lifted, pitched again--fast, hot, in tight. Draper danced back, didn't swing. The hologram called strike three. Out. Draper’s jaw tightened. He slung a look of acid toward Grace before trudging off to his dugout, the metal on his cleats crunching hard into the packed earth.

The Mudbugs' dugout howled, their coach chewing at his moustache.

Next up: Tanner Dotchum. The kid was a slab of a boy, square-jawed, broad-shouldered, halfway grown into a man already. Tanner smirked, dug the cleats into the chalk, and lifted his bat like he’d been born with it straight out of the womb. He cracked his knuckles, sneered at Gideon, and tossed a remark about inbred parishes like Plaquemines. Gideon ignored him completely.

Grace’s first fastball cut the air clean, a line of white spinning over the plate. Tanner swung with frightening violence, wood meeting leather for the barest of instants, then sending the ball skying foul. The sound rang out over the ballfield, and though the ball arced away harmlessly, Gideon felt the power behind it. Even foul, the sheer force in it made people in the bleachers lean back.

"C'mon, Tanner!" the Mudbug coach barked.

Tanner spat and glanced at Grace. "What's it like having a girl on the mound?" He muttered something filthier, nastier. Gideon didn't bite.

The next pitch dipped low, outside. Gideon blocked it, dust rising up. Tossed it back. Grace fiddled with her cap and repeatedly tugged at the sleeves of her uniform.

Then she lost one--high, over Tanner's head. He laughed, loud and mean. "My grandma's got a three-legged corgi that could throw better than her."

Gideon popped from his crouch. "Shut up and just play the game, Tanner." He knew the bigger kid's routine. They had played the Mudbugs team over the last couple of years and every time the Dotchum kid found himself anywhere near a Pirate, he'd start in with the trash talk. Except it wasn't just trash talk--it was something far nastier.

Tanner smirked, bat tapping his cleats.

Grace wound, snapped the ball in. Heat in the zone. Tanner hacked and missed. Strike two.

Full count soon enough--three balls, two strikes, tension wound tight as a violin string.

"Let's go, Grace!" her teammates from the outfield roared. "Burn him!"

Next pitch came high, inside, Tanner fouling it back against the chain-link fence with a clang that rattled every one of its bolts.

Grace looked rattled. Mask hot on his face, Gideon called time and jogged out to the mound.

Chet from first base trotted in, long legs and a wisp of a prepubescent moustache. Rose from third too, her chubby cheeks red from sun and effort.

Gideon squatted in the dirt in from of Grace. "You got him full count. Keep throwin' that heat."

Grace's lip trembled. "Last three games against him, he hit four homeruns off us."

Chet shook his head and spat. "Ain't the homers bother me. It's that smug face." He shot a look to home plate, as if daring the batter to say something.

"Shoulder's startin' to hurt," Grace admitted.

From the dugout, Coach Marcel threw up his hands, as if wondering what the problem was. Gideon waved him off.

Rose snorted. "If the weren't tied and on the line, I'd say plunk the sumbitch."

"You know we can't," Gideon said. "Ain't the spirit of the thing, Rose."

"I'd plunk him," Chet muttered.

"Guys! Grace got this, okay? Let her put that donkey down on strikes. Right, Grace?"

Grace nodded. It was thin but very real.

Timeout ended, Gideon handed her the ball, eyes steady. "Smoke 'em."

Trotting back to the plate, he passed Tanner, who muttered something about female pitchers needing emotional support groups. Gideon didn't flinch, retaking his position behind the plate, crouched.

Grace took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. After a long moment, she opened them again and wound up. The ball left her hand and sizzled, then dove. Tanner swung. Connection. A brutal crack. The ball rose high--and then higher, sailing high toward left field.

"See ya next year, loser!" Tanner crowded, tossing the bat aside as he jogged his way to first.

Grace had turned, watching the ball make its skyward exit. She looked back to Gideon and then crumpled to the mound, knees hugged tight, face in her arms.

The ball cleared the fence easily. And then some. The Mudbugs' dugout emptied, boys leaping, voices a storm. They ringed home plate, waiting for Tanner to finish his strut around the bags.

Gideon stripped his mask away, walked to her side through the swirl of jubilation, and stood over her. He placed a hand, clumsy and unsure, on her shoulder. He stood silently beside her, mask dangling, dirt streaked on his cheeks. He mumbled what a twelve year-old could: "Ain't your fault."


~TBC~

 

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