White Ravens
Gage
Gage could still feel Scar’s heated gaze on his skin, but Adrian’s voice kept drawing him in the other direction.
They rode in silence for a while, and he appreciated how smoothly Adrian drove. There was no aggressive braking, sharp lane shifts, or swift acceleration.
Thirty minutes in, the car slowed, and gravel popped under the tires before Adrian parked and killed the engine.
“Okay, we’re here. You ready?”
“You mean to go to the place I have no idea I’m going to,” Gage shrugged. “Sure.”
The moment the door opened, the sound hit him like a memory he hadn’t touched in years, and his face lit before he could stop it.
He smiled at the familiar rattle of chains. A machine’s motor cycling, then the sharp thwup when the ball fired. The netting hissed each time something hit it. A bat cracked loud enough to echo.
“Baseball?” he said, almost accusingly. “You brought me to a batting cage.”
Adrian’s laugh was quiet and pleased. “I sure did.”
Gage’s heart gave a stupid, excited kick. “I played all four years in high school.”
“I know,” Adrian said, “I read it in your file.”
My file?
He wondered what else was in there. Jo probably had CIA database access and knew every detail of his life from birth to criminal conviction.
The Ravens most likely knew where his parents met, the second-grade teacher he’d had a crush on, his first pet—a box turtle he’d found trundling across the street that he’d stupidly named Speedy Gonzurtle—how many times he skipped Sunday school. Even that he was still a virgin.
Adrian took his hand in that respectful way and guided his fingers into the crook of his elbow.
They walked inside, counting his steps in a way that’d become an automatic, obsessive habit.
The air was warmer inside, but dusty, with the nostalgic scent of rubber mats and old leather gloves.
When they paid and got into their slots, Adrian narrated the space as if he were painting with words, and Gage was amazed at how clearly he could see it.
“Nets are on both sides. The cages are lined up like lanes. The machine’s about…twelve feet in front of us. There’s a bucket of balls to your right and a rack with bats. Nobody’s too close. We’ve got room.”
Gage nodded slowly.
He stepped up to the lane, and Adrian stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Do you know why I chose this activity.”
Gage lifted his chin. “Because you’re trying to make me feel normal.”
“No,” Adrian said firmly. “To stop you from trying to function with a brain that still expects sight. And help you learn your body’s enhancements by training the right channels.”
Gage hummed. “And a batting cage trains what?”
Adrian slid a bat into his hands. The grip was wrapped in polymer tape, that was slightly tacky to the touch.
“You’re going to learn timing,” he said. “Not guessing. Timing. You’ll track the pitch by sound… Not just the machine, but the way the ball cuts through the air. Until your swing becomes a reaction, not a decision.”
Gage chewed on that for a minute, wondering if it was really possible.
