Avery on the Mound

>as you stare down the diamond to the mound, a pit grows in your stomach
>the rail-thin robot there smiles, toying with the ball in her glove, catching it repeatedly as she taunts you
>you take the time as she raises her leg and winds up to contemplate just how you got there, and what brought you to the receiving end of a nandroid’s fastball
>you’d always liked robots, even the earliest models you saw in your youth were like magic
>rudimentary human forms made from bulky steel plates trundled along the aisles in grocery stores or at construction sites
>in elementary school it had been crude idols made from plastic bricks, then erector sets and, by your senior year of high school, you’d begun building your own simple machines in the basement
>they were a lovely help when chores piled up and your parents’ appreciated the extra hands to load dishes or dust shelves
>but these simple constructs weren’t thinking or feeling like the “big league” robots you’d known
>so you set out to get somewhere that you could make them for yourself
>four years of intensive work and sacrifice in university and you’d clawed your way to the bleeding edge of robotics, settling comfortably into a job at Sterling Robotics
>that’s where it began for you
>orders from on high came down to make more sporty, active and energetic personality models for robots
>just your specialty
>working in the Personality Development and Modelling department you worked on the randomization process through which every nandroid was assigned its quirks and ticks that made them more human, more dynamic
>amid a growing health conscious population, consumers wanted robots that would match and push them
>in comes the “sport-bot” configuration your team put together
>rowdier, stronger, faster and with an attitude to boot, they were the ideal fitness and sports companion for adults and children alike
>and it was such a robot that had just catapulted a roaring fastball towards you
>the Sterling Annual Field Day was, by all intentions, an excellent, out-of-doors team building exercise
>with the development of your sport-bots however they’d decided to do some testing ‘in the field’
>That testing was now rocketing towards you at eighty miles an hour as you stepped forward and swung fruitlessly
>The robot opposite you guffawed as the catcher behind you, a denser Sterling police model, threw the ball back
>Breathing deep you got ready once again, bat still as the Summer air as you watched the face of the robot disappear beneath her cap’s visor
>Winding up for another pitch the nandroid sneered, letting loose a rapturous changeup which left you swinging before it even arrived
>She was now doubled over laughing at you, much to the chagrin of yourself and your teammates
>The catcher couldn’t help but chuckle beneath the helmet that covered her thick blonde hair
>It was likely over for you this inning
>With one last chance for a hit you steeled yourself for the coming thunder, the pitcher’s hat now mockingly backwards
>With an immaculately fluid motion she whipped the ball at ludicrous speed|
>You had little time to process or dodge as it rocketed into your side, a thunderous smack as it impacted in your torso
>As you held your side in pain and stumbled forward there was, mercifully, no laughter from the mound
>“Batter, take your base.”
>You limp over to first base as one of your robotic teammates takes second, his heavy step pounding in the dirt
>The pitcher is silent save for a little sniffle, shaking her deep red hair and straightening her hat
>As the inning ends you retreat to the dugout to fetch some ice, opting to spectate only for the duration


>As the innings go by you notice the little robot losing her edge from earlier, no longer earning the strikeouts that put her on the mound in the first place
>A walk too many and she’s switched out for one of the human department heads who, bun-haired and buxom-bodied, steps up to pitch
>The tank of a woman obliterates your team inning for inning as you sit helplessly on the bench, nursing an expanding bruise
>Your assailant sits in the same position in the opposite dugout, sulking quietly before being summoned up to bat
>Lacking the drive she swings half-hearted and strikes out repeatedly, each contesting half on the field having dropped a single player in the name of convenience
>Just a couple more hours and the game’s done, the myriad of robots old and new mingling with your coworkers, peers and the smattering of higher-ups still young enough to play
>Your team lost, naturally, as Badbury had a nasty habit of obliterating any pitch thrown at her with a whip-crack of her bat

>Wincing as you get up you make your way for the parking lot being the last one out before you get a tug on the arm
>The diminutive robot stands defiantly beneath you, eyes cast sideways as she apologizes meekly
>You reassure her that it was just an accident, a mistake that could happen to anyone
>Reassuring her you try and move on, cautioning her gently about not “playing rough” with kids upon her assignment
>But she doesn’t give up as she tags behind you, now tossing her ball off your back before catching it
>It’s only the two of you on the field now, everyone else gone home or returned to the Sterling offices
>It dawns on you that she’s missed her ride home now, too
>Knowing that she’s one of your own, you relent
>Evidently your team’s work put a raging competitive streak into this robot
>She was now petitioning you for help, pinning her failings on you more than herself for obvious reasons
>You were, after all, the engineer of her entire family of nandroids
>For the moment all you could do was shrug and offer her a ride back to Sterling, subconsciously warning yourself about the risks of over-fraternization with the robots
>She reluctantly agrees as she hops into the passenger seat, sulking like an angsty teenager instead of collecting herself like her model nandroid cousins
>Battery low from a day of strenuous activity, in defiance of her line’s expanded battery for such activity, she nods off as the sun sets


>It’s a lot harder than you initially thought to convince Bradbury to let you take a nandroid out of education just to teach her to be better at baseball
>Even harder considering you know next to nothing about baseball other than the very basics you learned for the company game
>Now you were arm-twisted (somehow) into getting her outside just to play catch or whack a few pitches in their downtime
>After a number of anxious weeks petitioning Bradbury and desperately trying to convince your higher ups of the utility of such an experiment, they relented
>So long as you were able to manage her nandroid education, you could have free reign in making her a baseball pro
>Somehow you felt a duty to do so, especially now that she was sleeping in your closet
>You’d wake up certain mornings either to coffee and breakfast as was expected, or to the still-sleeping form of the robot in your linen closet
>Every day you’d drone on from the Sterling-approved curriculum on nandroid etiquette and duty while Avery slacked off or lost focus
>It was an uphill battle just to get her to wear her uniform and fake half a sense of decorum
>A battle you’d lose the moment you took her out to practice
>The first weeks alone at your local park were stress inducing and, frankly, bad for your health
>Avery had a nasty habit of throwing overly loud chin music towards you and beaned you on more than too many occasions
>With proper precautions in place, however, her progress was swift
>Her pitches grew faster, more precise and terrifying and you feared what would happen should you swing at them
>It was, ultimately, wiser to swing lest you face the wrath of the little robot for *not* swinging
>She’d pitch strike after strike to you and you could only swing absently, unable to even process her fastball as she evolved into part pitching machine-part nanny robot
>She still refused to wear the dress except for the regular update presentations you had to give on the sport-bot line of nandroids
>You had to give yourself a pat on the back every now and again, having created something with so much potential
>Making a robot that, with training, could go toe-to-toe with an MLB rookie would look nice
>You might even get a promotion out of it
>As Summer turned to Fall and then to Winter, the time was fast approaching to see Avery go
>You’d managed to drag her through the bare minimum of maid classes to ensure she could graduate and get a family
>It broke your heart when you had to drive her back to Sterling after all those months, shut off and balled up in the back seat
>Work had you bogged down so you couldn’t even attend the first graduation of the sport-droid line you’d watched grow and mature over the past year
>You left a small place in your heart for your baseball protege as you got to work on the next line of nandroids

>Several years more and you’d been promoted a number of times, finally working on the newest model of domestic robots
>Almost indistinguishable from humans their form and function put the oldest models to shame, making them seem anachronistic, backwards even
>You always had a soft spot for what your junior team members considered “the classics”, though
>Fond memories of your younger days spent gallivanting about and rewriting the rules of robotic personalities pushed you forward though
>You’d smile quietly when you saw older models at the store, or on the street, or wherever else
>But with a burgeoning movement towards robotic autonomy, one you welcomed wholeheartedly (but quietly, for you were still an employee of Sterling), came an explosion in a unique robot culture
>They revealed to the world poets and artists and musicians of a style all their own
>And, most dear to you, athletes and champions of their own leagues
>You’d sit down every weekend with your kids to watch them play on the television, robots of all make and model duking it out in sports appropriated from humans or entirely their own
>Your kids were especially large fans of watching construction robots race to bend girders and raise buildings in arenas
>Past that though, once the kids were bored and went off on their own, you watched the robot baseball leagues
>Pitching machines and batting robots were the obvious stars of the game and got lucrative sponsors
>But the sore thumb on the field every game was the red-headed robot who saunters up to the mound, cocksure and confident beyond her years
>The founder of the very league she was playing in and team she was pitching for
>That robot who’d beaned you more times than you’re willing to remember and likely whupped (lovingly) her family’s kids in whatever sports they dared challenge her in
>Avery