[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

[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.

[mnt_raph]

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...

[mnt_raph]

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.