MATURE: - Ongoing rstrui.exe (OFF/Rhythm Heaven) (The Batter/Air Batter toxic yaoi/yuri)

[Welkamo]

This is a story about baseball.

Spoiler: Author’s Notes

My toxic batter yaoi/yuri, now on Bulbagarden.

This isn’t canon to my other Rhythm Heaven stuff, although some headcanons are shared between those and this.

I planned this to be 18 chapters but that could very well change.

Spoiler: Content Warnings

This is not a story about healthy relationships, or healthy characters, or healthy opinions. While there will be a happy ending (or bittersweet, but not bitter), this is not a nice story for cute children. This story contains:

• Morally gray-to-very-dark-gray characters
• Toxic/abusive relationships with oneself and others (including physical and emotional abuse)
• Codependency
• Religious fundamentalism/fanaticism
• Transphobia, homophobia, enbyphobia, sexism/cissexism, polyphobia, gender essentialism, and slut shaming, both external and internal
• Homicidal and suicidal ideation
• Sexual themes
• Body dysmorphia and dysphoria
• References to violence and past mass murder (read: The Batter’s backstory)

Characters may express viewpoints or do things that do not reflect the author’s or the reader’s viewpoints. If you’re appalled at what a character says, good! That was almost certainly intentional.

Spoiler: Preferred Feedback

I feel like I misinterpreted OFF, and I feel like my Rhythm Heaven headcanons might be a bit bullshit. Please let me know if that is the case.

Please also let me know if the themes are working right. And typos.

 

[Welkamo]

It’s in the mines where you realise something is off.

You’ve been here countless cycles, countless lifetimes. You’ve succeeded at purifying this world. You’ve failed. Over and over the world resets. Your mission remains, until the world is finally pure without failure or reset.

The Elsen above said there were spectres down here, but you see none, even after you call out to the emptiness. You know there should be spectres after that; the memory is a reflex at this point. But none appear. Your mission cannot continue without this event happening.

You wander the mines in search of those first spectres. But as you do, you begin to realize that there are no spectres, not even a single one. Your movements are different, too, going diagonally instead of straight forward, walking backwards instead of turning to the opposite direction.

Wait. There’s logic to this. It’s all probably just those… what are they, “modifications” your puppeteer sometimes summons to…

You slowly realize the absence of your puppeteer.

You’ve never been conscious in the absence of your puppeteer.

You try to keep yourself together, even as your stomach churns. Has the puppeteer’s premeditated betrayal come early? That’s impossible, even with modifications. One impossibility would be hard to process, but so many being revealed at once…

You run up and out of the mines, not once encountering a spectre. The Elsen you talked to before seems alarmed.

“Back so soon? You really are a prophet.”

“There were no spectres.” You keep up your composure. This Elsen is not worthy to see anything less. No one in this world is.

“Are you sure? That can’t be.”

“I must be on my way.”

“But—”

You waste no more time with the Elsen, instead making your way back to the tram. You don’t know who you could possibly turn to for answers. The Queen, maybe, but how can you reach her at this point in the cycle? You could go back to the Judge, but you’ve never before tried to return to his Zone. Your only other option is to hope…

“It seems like you also noticed something’s OFF.”

You turn at the familiar voice. Sure enough, Zacharie is behind you, though without his usual goods and wares. Right now, he's your only option, and perhaps the best one for this situation.

“Where is the Player?”

Zacharie shrugs. “Beats me. But isn't it nice to not have to keep killing everyone over and over again?”

What is nice about losing your purpose, the one thing that defines you?

At your silence, Zacharie sighs. “You and I are the only people in this game who know something’s wrong. Or different. It might not be wrong for everyone involved. Maybe without the Player telling us what to do, we can go about fixing our problems without destroying them.”

“We’re past the point of fixing these problems.”

Zacharie scowls. “No, you’ve just never considered the possibility that there is an actual solution to the problems. And your delusions managed to convince the Player to go along with this endless cycle. Or maybe it was the Player who deceived you. I’m sure there’s a mod out there that could put a stop to the endless and needless violence, but I guess your precious Player never considered that.”

His posture softens. “It doesn’t matter. Either the Player is dead, or the system this game is on is dead. We’re free. You’re free, amigo.”

(You hate the feeling of freedom.)

-

The world feels empty. Especially the tram.

You’ve been riding it back and forth; you can’t think of much else to do. Is this what grief feels like? This heavy, opaque feeling that sits like a fog in your mind? This feeling that seeps into your muscles and bones, petrifies them, weighs them down? You can’t even feel the Elsens that come and go, or the stop and starting of the tram.

Your eyes open, and your mind. Your body aches from sitting for so long, and your mouth is sticky with the sour taste of sleep.

You stumble a bit as you stand up. Without much motivation to do so, you exit the tram.

The world outside is… different.

Verdant trees stretch up and out as far as the eye can see. Birds chirp in joyous conversations that span deep into the forest. Most impressive of all, seven colourful towers stand proudly against the backdrop, both contrasting and complementing the trees.

You approach the center tower. It looks the most like the trees, like the most important tower.

The interior is overwhelmingly alive with warm lighting, flora, and creatures of every shape, size, and colour. Everyone looks so… happy. It’s hard to tell who’s working and who’s relaxing.

Where are you?

WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

You’ve never heard of a Zone like this, if this is even a Zone. There is no industry. There are no Elsens. There’s too much colour.

“Hey man, are you looking for something?”

A… a talking tree in overalls approaches you, with that same friendly demeanor that coats everything here like mold.

“What is this place?” That’s probably a good question to ask first.

“Right here? This is Lush Tower. I take it you’re not from around here.”

You take a moment to decide on a response. “No.”

“Not a problem, man. We have visitors from all over the world. Where are you from?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Haven’t heard of it.”

Trey leads you through the main foyer. He goes on about the history of this place, how it and the other towers were created centuries ago to preserve the balance of ‘flow’ and unite the warring tribes.

“What is flow?” you ask.

“Flow? Aw man, flow is, like, what flows through all of us. It keeps us in tune with the rhythm of the universe, or other people, or ourselves.”

“Is ‘flow’ an element?” This… gibberish reminds you of the explanations of the four—five elements of the world that you’ve heard so many times.

Trey seems taken aback by your question. “Uh… I guess so, in a way. Not like chemistry elements, but it is an essential part of every living thing.”

It’s nice to have someone leading you, minimal though it may be. You were made to follow orders, and you’ll follow any you can get.

You go up in the elevator. Transparent, with gold trim. After a few floors, the foyer disappears behind wooden walls.

“Come on, lemme show you the Café,” Trey says as he walks ahead of you. “It’s, like, the place to be if you’re gonna be here.”

The Café is small, but just as lively. There’s a terrace, what looks like a museum…

Is that a dog at the counter? Not that you have any ground to criticize from.

“Barista!” Trey seems to be talking to the dog. “Good to see you! Say, I got this…” He looks up at you. “What’s your name?”

“I am The Batter. I've been entrusted with a sacred mission.” There’s a strange comfort in the certainty of those words.

The dog’s eyes light up. “A batter, you say? I should introduce you to one of our regulars.”

The dog—right, it’s called the Barista—jumps from the counter and goes over to one of the smaller tables. You imagine strings leaving Trey and falling into its paws. It controls you now.

You stop as you see the man at the table. He looks… oddly like you. Similar black and white baseball uniform, similar hard-to-read expression, only he wears a helmet, and his skin is green.

“Air Batter!” the Barista says, “this fella here is called The Batter. I think you two will get along great.”

This… Air Batter perks up, looking up at you. He stands and takes your hand to shake it excitedly. Is this how people greet each other in this… place?

He moves his hands in bright and fluid movements.

“He wants to know what team you play for,” the Barista explains. Is this man… speaking with his hands?

“I don’t play for a team,” you reply. “My duty is mine alone to bear.”

Air Batter’s hands move again, and again the Barista says, “What duty?”

“I must purify the world.”

Air Batter’s hands freeze, as though he’s thinking about what you just said.

“Well… why don’t you two talk about baseball?” the Barista suggests as it walks away.

Air Batter pulls out the other chair for you. As you sit, you notice the things on the table: a notebook and pen, and a plate with white triangles, each with a black stripe.

Air Batter sits down and hands you one of the triangles. Your frown tightens as you take it.

“What is this?”

Air Batter grabs his notebook and pen and writes something down, then shows it to you:

A rice ball :)

“What’s that?” It certainly doesn’t look like a ball.

He pauses, then begins to write, stops, writes again.

“Can you not speak?”

He nods, hesitates, shakes his head. You understand the message: ‘Yes, that’s right. No, I cannot speak.’

They’re wonderful. You can put different fillings in them and eat them at any time of day. They’re one of my favourite things in the world. These ones have smoked salmon.

So they’re foodstuffs. You’ve never heard of salmon, though. You’ve never heard of anything besides meat and sugar being foodstuffs. “Are they an element of this world? Like flow?”

Air Batter laughs as he writes. He has a very… cute demeanor to him.

Technically no, but they are to me.

“What are the elements of this world, then?”

It’s been a while since I took chemistry, but there are over a hundred. I will show you.

He turns to the bag slung over his seat to search through it. He takes out a metallic, rectangular object and begins tapping at it with his fingers. He shows it to you. At the top it reads ‘periodic table’, and below it there’s a group of squares with names and numbers, with an individual square above explaining what each means: atomic number, name, symbol, atomic mass. Na Sodium, Ga Gallium, Hf Hafnium…

You may as well be looking at nothing; it would make just as much sense.

He takes the object away from you, puts it on the table, and picks up one of the rice balls. You might as well eat yours.

You taste something plain, then salty, then… meat. Your mouth waters with a newfound lust. A rekindled flame. Even after you devour it in a flash, saliva drips onto your hands.

When you look up, Air Batter’s face is… different. It’s a red ball, with a big nose and big eyes.

“What happened?”

He cocks his head and shrugs.

“What happened?” He’s deceiving you. He’s hiding something.

You slam a hand on the table as you stand up. “Your face. It’s different.”

His hands rise, like he’s about to talk with them again, but he grabs for his notebook, writes something down, and holds it up to you:

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Rage builds up in your body. He’s lying. That means he has something to hide. A fresh coat of paint hiding filth. You should kill him right here and now…

Instead, you sink back into your seat and ask, “What team do you play for?”

Your well-trained instincts are telling you to kill Air Batter, but something stops you.

(You… you like how he talks about such simple things with such joy. You like how he talks to you like a friend, not a prophet or a killer. He reminds you of Zacharie, in a way.)

God, what would he say if he saw you now?

 

[Welkamo]

Hey did you see those warnings? For transphobia and homophobia gender roles and stuff? Yeah read those. Also sexual themes those pop up too.

---

By the time you and The Batter are leaving, the sun is setting, and you’ve filled your notebook up. Mostly, it was you telling them about yourself: your girlfriend who makes you wonderful rice balls, playing spaceball, your space travels. The Batter doesn’t talk much, except for when they’re waxing poetic about their holy mission. A dedication to help others and stop the evil in the world is admirable.

They’re at the Café everyday, standing straight and still as though they’re waiting for you. Every day they’re as vague as the day before. Something about a friend named Zaccharie, an amusement park, fighting ghosts…

You text about them to your girlfriend when you get back home. A lot. You didn’t realize how many words you could use to talk about them until now. She suggests you ask them out… In your whirlwind of infatuation, you have to be told to just say something, damnit.

You go back to the Café again. You wait by sitting at a table, thinking over what you want to write for them.

You’re handsome. I was wondering if you would want to sleep with me.

Too direct.

I love you.

Too extreme, and maybe not likely.

Would you want to go on a date with me?

That will do.

“You’re here again.”

You look up at the familiar voice. How wonderful! You can barely contain your excitement, and you almost drop your note as you hand it to The Batter.

They look it over a few times, frowning.

Frowning.

“You… have a girlfriend.”

Oh! They’re worried about cheating. That makes sense. You nod, take the note from them, and write again.

We’re in an open relationship. Neither one of us is content with giving our love to just one person for the rest of our lives. Besides, it helps when we’re apart for long periods of time.

“Are you a… homosexual?”

You shake your head. It’s more complicated than that, probably too complicated for any one word.

“Then why are you in love with a—” They hesitate. You wait for them. “I’m a man. You’re a man.”

You shake your head.

“Then you’re a woman?”

Again, you shake your head. Their—or his, his eyes squint in confusion. “What are you?”

You write down your response: I don’t care much for gender. I’m whatever I need to be.

“Whatever your… Player needs you to be? Do you even have a Player?”

What? No. What’s a Player? Half jokingly, you respond, You can be my Player.

That seems to genuinely stun The Batter. You feel a bit guilty; perhaps the Player is their god?

“I have only ever been commanded, not the commander. But I suppose this is, in a way, a command. I will fulfill my duties to the best of my ability. Starting with the matter of your gender.” There’s conviction in his voice as he says, “You are a woman, and I will deflower you like a man.”

Spoiler: Author’s Notes

So idk if “deflower” is the right word at the end. “Defile” might work a little better but it has, uh, connotations of rape, when the vibe is more “I will fuck you” but The Batter isn’t gonna say fuck. Help. How do words work.