[OOM: In dreams.]

[mnt_raph]

INT. TENT THAT DREAMS OF BEING A STUDIO APARTMENT
The scene opens on the interior of Raph's tent as it exists at present, the scene is a desolate one. The camera pans through the space, starting with the front door flap and moving counter-clockwise through the space. As it travels through the living room/sitting area there is a brief pause to take in the one shred of magic still left on the roof: the Raph-shaped clean spot that claims the left-most cushion of the couch. The tour continues over the breakfast bar and through the galley kitchen, before coming to a halt on the remnants of what was once a bed.

Suddenly the alarm clock on the bedside table sputters to life, and the moonlight which bathes the room is augmented by the blue blinking display. The camera pivots to take in the face of the clock which blinks the time: 1:22 am. When it pans back to the bed proper, the bed is not only whole but currently occupied as well. A shirtless Human RAPHAEL lays on his back, his eyes closed.

Comments

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

Indy sighs in exasperation, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

There's solace to be found in his refreshingly cold beer however. And he's re-invigorated by the time Casey lets the first pitch sail past. It's a slider that drops under the strike zone and thuds into the catcher's mitt.

"Good eye, Case!"

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"Damn straight. NEVER SWING AT THE FIRST ONE CASE!"

Popcorn rains down on them from some part unknown.
Raph doesn't bother to fish it out of his beer before taking another drink.

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

Casey swings at the next one—a rising fastball—with all he's got. He only gets little piece of it though, and the resulting foul ball zips back towards Indy and Raph's section.

"Woah! I've got it!" Indy cries.

He rises to try and catch the ball... with about twenty other fans in the general vicinity.

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"Damn right you do!"

Raph leaps to his feet, ready to defend the ball against the incoming hoards.

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

The next moments pass in slow motion.

The ball sails on towards them, a forest of out-stretched arms lurching towards it. A few grunts and muffled thuds can be heard as Raph battles to get Indy some space.

The ball is too high though! It's destined for a cheaper row of seats. All looks lost...

...until Indy rises gloriously above the crowd, extending to his full six feet two inches and more, and snags the ball in his glove. (Of course he was wearing a glove—he's a good baseball fan).

"Can of corn," he says extra-smugly, as he settles back into his seat, over the mutters and grumbles from the luckless supporters around them.

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It's not that Raph takes pleasure in the pain of others, it's just that he can't help gloating either. So there might have been a couple of well placed "BOOYAH"s and "SUCK IT"s peppered in his congratulatory whoop.

"Nice catch, Old Man."

Is the only warning for the harder-than-it-should-be friendly shoulder check.

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

The jarring contact causes a little beer to fizz out of Indy's bottle.

"Easy!" the explorer laughs, before chugging the beer down to a more dormant level.

Without much more thought, he then hands the souvenir ball over to Raph. He knows it'll mean more to him.

[mnt_raph]

Raph holds the ball, really looking at it as only someone as psychotic about a team as he is would.

"What? You ain't serious. I can't take this. You earned it."

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

A strike is called as Casey is foxed by a breaking ball down on the diamond. The count goes to one and two.

"I don't want it," Indy replies. "It's not old enough."

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"So what, you think I can't catch my own ball? What am I a charity case or something?"

When in doubt, get offended.

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

Indy nods.

"Yep. Totally."

A sigh.

"Just take it, doofus. It's not like there's gonna be another foul make it up here today. And certainly not off Casey's bat."

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Raph grumbles, but obliges the explorer just the same.

"Hey, you don't know that. He knows we're up here. He might knock one up just to see if he can bean us in the process."

Which, one has to admit, is something Casey would do if he could. Sadly the last two pitches that have come his way cross the plate were nothing to look at.

"What're we at now? Full count? THIS PITCHER'S A BUM! GET'IM OUTTA THERE!"

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

Indy eyes his friend confusedly.

"What... so the next guy can come in and strike him out? I'd rather keep Wild Arm McGee down there and take the walk."

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Raph pulls a face and turns towards Indy.

"I'd rather they not waste anyone's time and just get it over the damn..."

His gripe is cut short by the deafening crack of bat slamming into ball.

"Oh OH! PAYDIRT!"

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

The ball rockets up and away from the plate. It's deep. Very deep! The leftfielder doesn't even give chase. Casey pumps his fist in the air and begins to lope around the bags. Indy gets to his feet with the rest of the crowd, whose voices are already cheering appreciatively.

"WAY TO GO, CASE!" he bellows, as celebration fireworks start to crackle and pop.

The ball, for its part, just keeps on going. Higher and higher, losing not an ounce of momentum. It's a white blob, then a speck, then nothing except a jet stream trail in the sky. It clears the stadium and the park beyond. It clears I-87. It clears The Harlem River, sails over Broadway, and keeps going across The Hudson, ever gaining altitude.

"Woah..." the crowd says in unison, Indy included.

[mnt_raph]

Woah doesn't even begin to cover it. The hit was so solid, so perfect, that gravity itself stands back in awe. With nothing standing in its way the ball rockets straight into space.

"That's it! The game's over! GO Back to Boston you Red Socked Bastards! There ain't NO way you can top that! WAY TO GO CASEY!"

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

"...There're still two innings left," Indy notes distractedly. "But that was pretty amazing. Should make Top Plays on ESPN."

He is still gawping at the ball's phenomenal flight path, as are most of the spectators around the venue. Eventually though, long after Casey has returned to the dug-out, people re-take their seats and divert their attention onto the next batter.

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Raph settles back into his seat, just now aware that he is beerless.

"Bah, minor technicality."

Now that the crowd has quieted the PA system crackles back into life. Now Batting for the New York Yankees. The center-fielder. Babe Ruth.

"Oh this oughta be good."

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

A few boos sound out from the Red Sox fans speckled about the stadium, but they're quickly drowned by the generous applause and cheers from everyone else.

Then, striding out in all his husky glory, the unmistakeable 1920's slugger takes the field. He is dimensionally correct, but he appears in grainy black and white cinefilm tones. This visual absurdity draws no comment from anyone, least of all Indy, who seems more indifferent to the spectacle than most. He saw Babe play in the record-breaking Murderers' Row team of 1927, after all.

Nevertheless, he does offer some vocal support to the legend.

"Let's go yard again, Babe!"

The batter responds by swinging at the first pitch, and missing horribly. It's possible he was distracted by the metallic screeching sound that can now be heard in the skies above the stadium...

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The Babe turns, jaw slack, and points a steady finger towards center field.

Raph, oblivious to anything that isn't baseball related, elbows Indy.

"He's callin' his shot! Check it out! He's totally callin' his next shot! GIVE'EM HELL BABE! MAKE'EM RUN!"

Normally this might very well be the case, but today is anything but normal. No what the Babe is doing, aside from being frozen in abject terror, is pointing towards the enormous space craft that is hurtling through the sky directly above the stadium. The panic sets it around the time that the ship begins to blot out the sun. Cries of panic are lost in the thunder clap of intergalactic rocket boosters.

The players have just enough time to make it off the field before the turf itself explodes upon impact.
Eventually the dust, and sod, settle. The House that Ruth Built is in shambles, and there's not a single Sox fan in sight.

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

Raph should be happy then. Indy, however, is just stupefied. This is probably not just because of the baseball-sized hole that can be seen amidst the cracks that spider across the glass dome of the ship.

More because... a gargantuan alien spacecraft just landed at Yankee Stadium!

As he looks on, a door opens in the side of the transport, and a ramp extends down to field level. Down it romps a heavily-armored bipedal triceratops, wearing a space helmet and brandishing a dangerous looking blaster-type rifle. It's followed by a whole gang of similar creatures, none of which seem to be here for the free Eighth Inning seats.

"Uh... they look kinda pissed," Indy says, very observantly.