The day is finally here, and she is so excited. SO very excited. It has cost a small fortune, or at least it has in the world of her budget. She’s never been to the new stadium, and hasn’t been to a game in person since the last time Mike Piazza played at Shea Stadium when she was in college. It’s a little different this time, new stadium, new manager, but in her heart still the same team. She’s different too, having changed considerably in the last twenty years, but in her heart she’s still the same girl.
She shifts excitedly, side to side in her shoes, perfectly used to the way the crowd keeps just a little distance around here. They’re closer here though, in this town, on this island, the beautiful Big Apple, amidst this boiling pot of mixed races she isn’t isolated with the wide berth of several yards she gets in suburbia. Here, people just keep a foot or two off to make sure they don’t bump. You can’t be too careful, but to her the proximity feels like a hug. Normally the bright hot sun might be dangerous for her, but it’s a cool spring day and she’s got nothing to worry about.
Opening day at Citi Field and the New York sunshine glistens through her translucent citrus green figure. She double-checks the vitality on her enchanted safety stone, the one that hangs embedded inside her shoulder and keeps her from accidentally dissolving anything or anybody if something untoward were to happen. Good to go. She loves the way her outfit feels, it’s so nice to be able to wear regular clothes again, and she certainly fills them out. Of course, she fills out everything she wears because she just picks something out and relaxes into it until the fabric is snug. Maybe should’ve worn a smaller bra though, the ladies are lookin’ a little prominent in her shirt collar. No matter. Her replica home game jersey with Mets scripted across the front and the number 31, Piazza across her shoulders, ladies cut, looks cute as hell even if it rides up on her belly squish above the waist of her cut-off jean shorts. A visor on to shade her eyes, with the headband just suspended slightly inside her “hair” to keep it from slipping, fresh new white sneakers and matching white imitation leather batting gloves to help keep her from picking up any contamination.
Finally she’s getting close, she’s in the shadow of the building, up at the front since admission has been going pretty smoothly. She’s about to be there, her first game in two decades-
“You. Out of the line.”
“Excuse me?” She spins on her heel and comes eye to eye with a dark uniform, a badge, mirrored shades, and an attitude.
“Site security.” He points sharply at her to follow. “Step out of line.”
“What? No.” She’s absolutely aghast. “I have tickets, I’m obviously using a safety stone, and I’m not hiding anything. You can literally see through me.”
“Doesn’t matter. This is a restricted access gate and the likes of you don’t got access.”
“Are you fuckin’ serious, buddy?” That South Providence accent comes out with her temper. “Do you have any idea how many hours I spent on the goddamn train just today? I called before I even bought the tickets last year, double checked a month ago and checked again just this morning. This pass cost a GOD DAMN FORTUNE! Home team VIP access. This is the right gate I fuckin’ promise you that and I’m not giving it up for nothing!”
She jerks her VIP pass up out of her pocket, it even has her picture on it. Kyra S. Lime.
“Uh-huh whatever you say. Miss Slime. Not the first time I’ve seen a fake dugout pass.”
Her expression turns absolutely deadly. “EXCUSE ME? My name is Kyra SAMANTHA LIME you IGNORANT FUCK. If you think you’re so GOD DAMN SMART we’ll see just how real this pass is when they scan it at the fucking gate!”
He mumbles something into his radio and pulls something that looks like gun with a flat front and no visible barrel off his belt. “You’re gonna come quietly.” He levels the device at her chest. “Or we’re gonna haul you out in a bucket do you unders…” His expression suddenly drops as a shadow looms over.
The crowd nearby has hushed to watch. Several people are recording with their phones, and a hand is now lightly on Kyra’s shoulder. A very, very large hand. She flinches as the owner of said hand pauses at her side, and she looks at them. Up at them, up at him. Twice her size at least, there is a minotaur standing at her side, a minotaur in crisp black slacks and a Mets-blue polo shirt, with a radio on his hip and an earbud in his right ear, towering over her and the rental cop. The large badge clipped to his pocket shows his photo and name, some other info, a barcode and a holographic seal, and VIP Guest Services & Security in large easy to read letters.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. Is there a problem here?” His voice booms from on high, deep and low, and firm.
Kyra steels herself for a moment, she has to just to keep her legs from going mushy from the fright of being stuck between a minotaur and an asshole with a weird gun. The minotaur gives her a gentle pat on the shoulder, reassuring, then she realizes she recognizes his name from some emails a while back with the box office.
With a sudden onrush of confidence, she holds her VIP pass up for him. “This fuckin’ mook says my pass is fake and I have to get out of line or they’re gonna take me out of here in a bucket.”
The minotaur just smiles and pulls a portable scanner off his hip. With a distinct beep and a moment to pull the information up, he nods to shaking green woman and hands her VIP pass back. Then he turns to the security officer and his expression goes dead cold.
“Man if you don’t safe that weapon right now we are about to have an incident.”
“Sir, I-”
The minotaur cuts him off. “No. Put it away and go back to the post. Now.”
The man clumsily holsters the weapon and scuttles off, trotting back toward one of the security doors.
The crowd holds still for just a moment as the minotaur takes his phone out. The conversation is brief, but very clear from just this side. “Put me through to the chief.” A moment’s wait. “Hey, it’s Teal. Yeah I just sent 253 back to the post. Yeah. Pull his badge and his equipment and trespass him out, and save the cameras for the last… oh fifteen minutes on west VIP. I’m bringing a guest in, she’s pretty shaken up. We’ll handle that on my side, the other guy is all yours.”
He puts his phone away and rubs his forehead for a moment, then breathes out a sigh. “Well then, Miss Kyra. We’ve got some time to kill, what do you think about some lunch?” He starts heading toward the entry gate, more accurately toward the private party entrance, and gently shepherds her along.
“Oh.” She gathers herself as the gravity of what just happened starts to set in, hardly realizing she’s being lead into the stadium. “I was gonna maybe have a Coney or something, depending on how much I had left over after the gift shop. I kind of blew the whole budget on the tickets and sleeper rooms on the train. You know how people can be about us in public, I mean you just saw it.”
“I didn’t say anything about spending your money.” He laughs gently, opening the door for her and they both head inside. The metal/weapon detector stays silent for her, and goes bonkers when he steps through. An attendant apologetically scans her safety stone with a proximity wand, then scans her VIP pass, and they wander into the stadium proper. “Twenty years since your last home game, if I recall?”
“Something like that, yeah. Back when I was going to Union, we’d pool our money and get the cheap seats. Of course it was easier back then. Still been following the whole time though, fan clubs and all that through the years.”
“That’s right, always forget not everyone was born how they are today. Even then some of the shapeshifters have it easy, not like you and me though. Born or changed, we kind of stand out.”
“Yeah… it took some getting used to, but it’s been ten years. It may have been an accident at first, but if I could go back and stop it I don’t think I would. Just wish I’d have found out about safety stones years ago instead of spending a fortune on acid-resistant clothes and staying holed up in my studio all the time. Everyone’s too busy being terrified when all of a sudden you don’t have bones any more and you can dissolve stuff by touching it. Nobody tells you that you can still do stuff like go to baseball games and hang out at monster bars.”
“Either way I’m glad you made it back to home plate, so to speak. After that unnecessary mess outside, I think the only thing you need to worry about for the rest of the day is baseball.”
They walk and talk for a good long while, with Kyra not hardly even paying attention to what’s going on or where she’s going. She’s just enjoying the stadium tour. Occasionally Teal pauses to say something into his radio, but for the most part it’s pretty cordial. They cruise by the gift shop and she looks around at stuff, falls in love with a few things, but counts her pennies and doesn’t get anything immediately. After a while she does start to wonder where exactly they are going, it feels like they’ve walked around the entire stadium. Mercifully, her new friend and guide ducks into a door labeled “Private” and motions her in. It’s thirty minutes to warm-up time, the stadium is starting to fill, and the door shuts behind her as she realizes she’s just been lead into the clubhouse and she’s surrounded by Mets uniforms.
It is at that very moment that the world, Kyra included, realized that slime girls could squeak.