[Turf] Zozo Marine Stadium

[Black Fire Lord]

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ZOZO Marine Stadium is a stadium in Chiba City, Japan. It opened in 1990 and holds approximately 30,000 people. It is primarily used for baseball and is the home field of the Chiba Lotte Marines. It is also used for Rugby union and Inter Rules.  

[Motherglare]

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xxxxxxx𝐁 𝐈 𝐓 𝐂 𝐇 ❗ 𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐄 ❟ 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓
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xxxxx𝑭𝑰𝑺𝑻XXXX𝑭 𝑼 𝑪 𝑲XXXX𝑶 𝑵XXXX𝑺 𝑰 𝑮 𝑯 𝑻

If there was one thing that could make this day wrong....
One swat. TING! TING! TIIING! Thump x 3. Three.
It would be a hater of the sport. Maybe she shouldn't listen to Trap Metal while her last hormone shots went unchecked. <******** you mean I can't play?" The faces of the underclassmen scared out their binary lines. Enter the heavy slung batter, the Art of War slouching casually over her shoulder. Rolling the handle over as the bat would knock against the soles of her heel to sound the call.

"I don't care about the public. Throw. It. Again." Sounded God, as sure enough the baseball came flying. Lethal to lethal, the swats burst through the air and bench each player for the next two seasons. It was amusing. Like watching oranges burst but human skulls weren't the best catching glove variety.

Number 82. Having been diagnosed as incurable in her ways. And ever since they lost the first inning, she would show them the way to fretful Nirvanna by first showing them the way to hit. A wink from Babe Ruth and the tang of metal appeared curve. The lines on her character becoming grainy through the ebb of flow as the last ball would be hit over yonder.

Split to 28. Oh. She forgot she was 28. She forgot that they weren't playing a game. This was just public destruction. Oh yeah, she was here to unload some aggression. Or did the therapist say to find a healthy hobby? Cleaning the side of her bat over the slumped body of an old Coach. "That's 3. And yer out."



X o l u s
Amazon shipped these hands earlier than expected.

 

[x E U R Y D I C E]

End of the line. Machida Rails left him in Chiba. Free streets annexed by the bodies of the busy. Working class in suits pacing like ants to and fro the farm in labor to please their bureaucratic queen. Molasses steps of a single individual, filled with liberty and justice for all halted before an empty stadium whose innards were echoes of clinging metal that betrayed its vacant appearance.

Enter 𝚂𝙾★𝙿. An ode to the beginning. The prelude of righteous warfare. The young protégé from the States summoned to aid in cleaning up the streets of its filth but to do so discreetly.

This was his first task.

Direct orders from Inspector Kazama: Subdue the target by any means whilst maintaining your cover.

Orientation hadn't touched on this.

Heavy steps carried same-minded body through the threshold of the stadium. A bag of knickknacks slung over one broad shoulder while the other hand held an open paperback of printed Japanese to English translations that his deep emeralds sped through with focused intent. It didn't hurt to brush up on one's Japanese. He moved through the stadium and beyond its numerous closed concession stands as his eyes rose from its page to lock on his target whose bloodied bat bled bits of brain from its base to its banner. The body of the victim slump and lifeless; the janitor that had called in the incident long gone. "Hooooi, practice doesn't start for another three hours. You're a bit early aren't you?" Shaky Japanese spilled clumsily from his lips like a drunkard's vomit. There was amusement in his voice; friendly and playful much like his half-cracked smile. However, the predacious glint in his visage was purposefully kept unmasked to the basket case below.

What better way to attract a psychotic assailant than with that same expression of mental brokenness?

A muffled ploop of dusty closing pages, the book disappeared within the innards of his coat. He leapt from the front row stands that over looked the dugout, bag in hand, before landing onto the field a few meters across from the woman with the crunch of dirt beneath his soles. Arrogance was the name, shown in his smirk.

"Your form could use some work." He challenged.

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[Motherglare]

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xxxxxxx𝐁 𝐈 𝐓 𝐂 𝐇 ❗ 𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐄 ❟ 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓
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xxxxx𝑭𝑰𝑺𝑻XXXX𝑭 𝑼 𝑪 𝑲XXXX𝑶 𝑵XXXX𝑺 𝑰 𝑮 𝑯 𝑻

Star strucken. Never before seen footage, Battington Balboa was getting a firsthand witness to a fruit tart yeehaw.

Did she just assume---

THUNK! Smile for the camera, repeat and do it over. Head swaying into a barrel locked c**k. Since when did he get here? In this sticky weather it was to catch scent of a fresh pup on the run. Yip yap, at least he had some criticism. Her form sucked because there no one around here was alive to be the bedlam of her talent. Those porsche blue eyes tickled the shredded chords of her nerves in his garbled Amerifunk accent. Angry recluse with every excuse to let load with the steel sphere pointed at him now. Thrasher in Jersey no. 28 exploded with excitement.

"𝙶𝚈𝙰-𝙻𝙰-𝙻𝙰-𝙻𝙰𝙷! 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚑' 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚋𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗!" , marching her way into hybrid motion. Iron slug loaded from the c**k of her shoulders, in fluid jerk, form taken and ready to buck off into a wide swing. Steel blunt turning into a tang arc ready to burst the human balloon.




X o l u s
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[x E U R Y D I C E]

The crazies were always the most charismatic and this was going to be one hell of a first day.

Spindly limbs stormed along the dirt beaten path that led towards the dugout. A confident Soap stood his ground, forearm flexed at his rear to latch his fingertips around something most divine. As that homerun swing came with planted feet the blonde exposed his side to her and his rear at the bat. It'd successfully hammer against the nylon of the duffel bag as it'd reverb and clack against something most solid.

Like limp skin the halfly zipped bag sagged from the bone of its device to the surface below. Soap's grip maintained clutch around the handle of what was revealed to be a Louisville slugger; fresh and polished. Marbled wood held the hollow metal at bay; disregarding its more refined mineral composition. "Ah. Ah. Ahhhh..." The blonde scolded as his lips curled into a smirk most tauntingly wicked. Spiritual streaks exhausting his hues to bore into the other's paleness.

"That's strike one."

Swift and bold was his leg. Lifted and straightened from a swift spring-like bend before being rocketed outward to cave in the other's chest. The force from his size thirteens would be imprinted into her soul should she not have a means of parrying his parry. Restraint shown whilst trying to force the woman back; his task wasn't to kill but to subdue.

However, he didn't see an issue with playing a little Battlefield Baseball to keep things interesting.

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