The batting cage chain-link rattled as I stepped up to the plate. The late afternoon sun cut through the mesh overhead, throwing diamond patterns across the scuffed rubber mat.

  It was a wonderful summer day, nearby a girl was playing fetch with an absolute sauasge shaped french bulldog, it yipped hapilly, I should've been pleased.

  I wasn't.

  "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Hendricks." Coach Peterson stood behind the fence, clipboard pressed against his polo shirt. Three other coaches clustered near him, arms crossed, faces blank.

  Youth baseball coach. The words tasted like chalk in my mouth. Mom had texted me the listing three times. They need someone with your experience, honey. It could be good for you.

  Good for me. Right. Nothing said 'peaked in high school' quite like teaching ten-year-olds how to hold a bat.

  I rolled my shoulders and gripped my blank aluminum Louisville Slugger. The pitcher machine whirred to life.

  The first pitch came in straight and steady, mechanical arm releasing with that familiar whir. I let it pass right by me, watching it thud into the backstop. The coaches muttered taking notes but I didn't care. My muscles tensed, remembering thousands of swings from when this all meant something. When scouts sat in bleachers with radar guns and Dad stood near the dugout, arms crossed, jaw set. When I had a future that didn't involve broken concrete and power tools.

  The second pitch launched from the machine. Time slowed as it crossed the plate—that sweet spot where everything aligns. My hips rotated, and my entire 235lbs of weight transfered from back foot to front in one fluid motion. The bat whipped through the zone.

  Connection. Solid. Perfect.

  The crack sang through my bones, vibrating up my arms and into my chest. That pure, crystalline sound you only get when you catch it dead center on the barrel. The ball exploded off the bat, a white streak that rocketed into the back net hard enough to make the whole cage shudder. The mesh bulged outward from the impact.

  For half a second, everything felt right again. Like I hadn't wasted ten years. Like Dad might actually answer if I called.

  "Nice form," one of the coaches muttered.

  I reset my stance. Third pitch. This one I could crush. Show them I wasn't just some washed-up—

  The sky screamed.

  Metal shrieked against air. I jerked my head up as something—no, multiple somethings—plummeted through the clouds. Chrome bodies twisted as they fell, humanoid shapes with glowing blue seams running along their joints.

  "Holy shit!" Peterson stumbled backward. His clipboard clattered to the concrete.

  The robots hit pavement with bone-jarring thuds, joints hissing as they straightened. Red light swept across faces, bodies, dogs. People screamed, scrambled for the parking lot. A few idiots actually pulled out their phones.

  "Everyone back!" Peterson's voice cracked. He was already halfway to his Corolla.

  The nearest robot turned toward me, scanning beam sliding across my chest. My heart hammered. Every instinct said run. Get the hell out.

  But watching them scatter—Peterson, the other coaches, the kids who'd been throwing balls in the outfield—something hot and bitter clawed up my throat.

  Here we go again.

  Another thing ripped away. Another door slammed shut. Another fucking opportunity gone because the universe decided to take a shit on my day.

  Twenty-nine years old and I couldn't even get a volunteer coaching gig without aliens or robots or whatever these chrome bastards were ruining it.

  My grip tightened on the bat. The aluminum creaked.

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  I'd been the best once. Top prospect. Fastest bat speed in the state. Now I was nothing—just another construction grunt who couldn't catch a break.

  The robot stepped closer. It was just over six feet tall matching my height, a skeletal frame of polished metal, face a smooth oval with a single glowing eye, a beam of red light shout out over me.

  Rage flooded my veins, hot and familiar.

  Not this time.

  "STEVEN HENDRICKS." Its voice crackled like a radio caught between stations. "YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR—"

  I swung.

  The bat connected with its head mid-sentence. The metal sphere launched off its shoulders with the same satisfying crack as that second pitch, sailed over the fence, and bounced twice before rolling to a stop near some girls feet, her little french bull-dog valiantly barking at the head to protect her, she was wide-mouthed recording.

  The headless body stood there for a beat, joints whirring, then crumpled to the ground in a shower of sparks.

  "Holy shit!" The girl screamed and stumbled backward. Her phone clattered to the concrete.

  More of them landed in the parking lot behind me. A dozen at least. Two dozen. They moved in perfect synchronization, heads swiveling toward me with mechanical precision.

  "STEVEN HENDRICKS," they said in unison, "YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR PARTICIPATION IN THE 3,477TH MURDER MOON GAMES. CONGRATULATIONS."

  "I'm in the middle of something!" I gestured at the coaches, who were now sprinting toward the facility entrance.

  The robots stepped forward. Their feet clanged against the asphalt.

  "RESISTANCE IS FUTILE. ACCEPTANCE IS MANDATORY. YOU WILL COMPLY."

  One of them reached through the cage fence. Its fingers—too long, too many joints—wrapped around the chain-link and tore a hole straight through the metal like tissue paper.

  I backed up against the pitching machine. "Whatever this is i'm not interested. I'm trying out for a coaching job."

  "NEGATIVE. YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED. PARTICIPATION SUPERSEDES ALL PRIOR COMMITMENTS."

  Three more tore through the cage from different angles. They moved like water, fluid and wrong.

  I gripped the bat tighter. "Back off or you'll end up like your buddy."

  They didn't back off.

  The first robot lunged. I side-stepped and brought the bat down on its elbow joint—a textbook check-swing that would've made Dad nod in approval back when he still gave a shit. Metal screeched. The arm bent at an unnatural angle but didn't separate.

  "Dammit!"

  Its good hand clamped onto my shoulder. Fingers dug through my work shirt—the same flannel I'd worn for three straight days because laundry meant going to the basement and admitting I lived in a shithole apartment.

  I twisted free, leaving fabric behind. The robot's scanner swept across my exposed shoulder.

  "SUBJECT DISPLAYS ABOVE-AVERAGE MUSCULAR DENSITY. THREAT RATING INCREASED."

  "Stop analyzing me, you creepy—"

  Two more came from my left. I swung wide, connected with one's midsection. The impact jarred up my arms but barely left a dent. The thing staggered back half a step, then kept coming.

  These weren't like the first one. That had been luck—caught it clean on the head, right where whatever processing unit it had probably sat. But body shots? Might as well be hitting a fire hydrant.

  Behind them, past the torn fence, that french bulldog was still barking. The girl had bolted—phone and all—but the dog stayed, sausage body planted between the robots and where his owner had been. Loyal little bastard.

  A robot changed direction. Its red scanning beam swept across the dog.

  The dog growled, all five pounds of fury.

  "THREAT DETECTED. TAKING ACTION—"

  "Oh, hell no." I charged past two robots, shouldered between them like I was breaking up a double play. My boots hit gravel and I slid the last few feet, bat already cocked back.

  The swing caught the robot square in the knee joint. Metal buckled. Sparks flew. The thing toppled sideways and I scooped up the dog one-handed, tucking it against my ribs like a football.

  It immediately bit my forearm.

  "Seriously?" Blood welled through my sleeve. "I just saved your ungrateful—"

  "INTERFERENCE WITH COLLECTION PROTOCOL IS PROHIBITED."

  Four robots formed a semicircle. Behind them, more descended from the sky, chrome bodies gleaming in the late sun. The parking lot looked like a goddamn robot convention.

  The dog squirmed. I loosened my grip and it dropped to the pavement, took off toward the back fence at a waddling sprint. Smart animal.

  A robot's hand shot out, caught my wrist. I yanked back but its grip was like a hydraulic press. Another grabbed my other arm. The bat slipped in my sweaty palm.

  The bat my dad had given me years ago.

  "No!"

  I wrenched sideways, pure rage flooding my system. That white-hot fury that lived in my chest during three AM gym sessions when I couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking about Dad's last text: Disappointed but not surprised.

  The bat came alive. I roared and swung one-handed hrough the robot's grip, felt something in my wrist pop but didn't care. The aluminum connected with a robot's head—another perfect shot, right on the temple equivalent—and sent the whole cranium spinning into the outfield like a home run ball.

  "SUBJECT DANGER INCREASING. SEDATION AUTHORIZED BY TRAINER."

  Something pricked my neck. Cold spread through my veins.

  "Fu—"

  My knees buckled. The world tilted. Above me, the sky split open—not clouds parting but space itself tearing like fabric. A ship descended, massive and dark, lined with pulsing blue lights.

  Hands—too many hands—lifted me. I clutched the bat against my chest.

  "Not taking it," I slurred. "Not taking my—"

  "COMPLIANCE ACHIEVED. SUBJECT SECURED."

  The last thing I saw before everything went black was that stupid french bulldog, safe on the other side of the fence, still barking.