Author's Note: So this short story actually won me a thousand dollar writing scholarship. Thanks to the generosity of my donors, and the supportive encouragement from my Reylo brethren, I obtained the necessary motivation to put myself out there. Now I can pay for college, and become a writer! Thank you all so so much! ^_^

I won't hold you up. Enjoy the story~!

*hugs*

Kylo at the Bat

by Avid Vampire Hunter

His father was really starting to drive him up the wall.

In the tepid air of an Arkansas Summer night sits Benjamin Alder Solo, debating whether or not he should crush the can of the disappointingly flat Diet Coke clutched impatiently in his right hand or bother tilt his sweating neck to swallow the last lukewarm drop. He goes with the latter, finding not only a supreme lack of enjoyment–but chokes on the sliding burn now etched into the back of his throat. He attempts to clear it with a grunt and stares at the now empty can as though it had just given him a parking ticket.

He stands and steps away from the table with a soft sigh, looking around for the nearest trash bin. Finding it rather quickly, he walks past, tossing the can towards the open lid. His aim is too low, and it bounces off of the edge with a smug chink.

Biting his cheek, he shoulders his duffel bag, shoves his fists into his pants pockets and walks away, double-checking to make sure no one saw him.

And of course, a family of five, casually eating hot dogs, saw everything.

If you asked Ben what his fondest memories of his father are, he would say two things. Number one: "piss off" and, number two: "I don't have any".

However, that would be a lie.

You see, Ben did, in fact, have at least one fond memory of his father—and it took place at the very building that he is attacking with a metal baseball bat at this very moment.

And it's actually a really funny story…

It all started with Ben's chosen career as a technician. Don't get him wrong—he makes plenty of money, but it never helped that his father always wanted him to become a pilot.

Han Solo was an esteemed pilot forced into retirement, and roughly an hour ago had used his snarky, passive-aggressive sense of guilt-tripping to try and force his son into joining Falcon Airlines. Aside from leaving home to God-knows-where or hanging out at some tavern with his hairy co-pilot buddy of forty years, Ben's failures seemed to be all that the old man could focus on.

Needless to say, Ben would have none of it.

Ben Solo is almost thirty, and has managed to make a perfectly good life for himself without his father interrupting—the man was never all that close to his son, anyway, so that doesn't really say much. Not only was his father pressuring him to join Falcon, but his mother was devoting every facet of her attention on her political campaign—rather than the irritating, smug demeanor of her husband.

Ben just isn't in the mood to deal with anyone right now.

So he's decided to hit the batting cages—literally.

When he paid for the cage, he fumbled with his cash as he wrestled it from his pocket. The guy behind the counter seemed pretty impatient, but Ben wasn't really the kind of person to worry about that. He tossed the crumpled bills on the counter and walked through the heavy door, not bothering to wait for his change. The way Ben saw it, he would have no problem punching that cashier in his smug face, but he didn't really feel like getting arrested. Not tonight, anyway. As he walked into the enclosure, Ben glanced around and felt a small bead of satisfaction rise and fall in his chest. He was alone.

The night air had cooled off quite a bit. The sweat on his neck had evaporated, and the black shirt clinging to his lean frame had eased itself from its chaffing. Setting down the duffel bag, he unzipped and donned his gloves, then pulled out his pride and joy.

The KHyber Kylo 9000 was heavy and nicely balanced in his hand. It's copper-metal finish glowed red under the small stadium lights from across the small plot, and he looked at it fondly. Scraping the bottom of his glove against the broadside, Ben trotted over to the bucket full of baseballs, picked it up, and walked across the cage to the pitching machine.

It's a pretty old-fashioned machine, and it doesn't work well.

But, you see, Ben didn't know that.

He loaded the balls without a problem, started up the machine, and made sure not to stand in its way as he walked over to his spot and tapped the bat gently against the asphalt. He readied his stance. The thing was so old he could hear the click, click, sput, before the first ball shot out at lightspeed.

It wasn't a problem for him. Unleashing his rage on the first swing with a solidified grunt, the deafening crack of contact echoed through the empty rows of cages, and the ball smacked into the chain-links hard enough to rattle the wall.

Smirking, Ben swirled the bat and tapped it against the ground once more, lowering his stance and cocking his elbows. Click click, sput! The next ball came, and he hit it again with a clash of lightning. He spun around and smirked again. Screw being a technician, he mused smugly.

Ben was actually the star batter on the varsity team of Jedi Academy, once, back when he was still in school. He could have gone places, but his father told him that it wasn't a good idea to invest himself in a career that would only take him so far.

And just how well did that turn out?

The next ball came, and Ben swung with an aggravated grunt. The ball flew away from him quickly, eager to escape the fuming man. First his father wouldn't allow him to progress in his athletic career, then tries to pressure him into joining his stupid airline after the fact?! He swung again. The ball hit the chains harder than before.

Just thinking about it was enough to set him off. Fixing his dark glare onto the trembling machine, his grip tightened on the handle of the bat. He slowly steadied his stance, readying himself for the coil, and breathed out. He imagined an ocean of fans cheering, chanting... So-lo! So-lo! So-lo! The dark sky and bright stadium lights blinded him, yet filled him with the steady reassurance that he would know who he was, and where he was going.

Click, click, sput!

With all of the power his anger would allow him, Ben stretched forth his left foot, releasing a powerful swing, and—

He missed.

Eyes wide and brow perplexed, Ben's mouth opened slightly in awe. He spun around slowly, and quickly saw the small ball rolling to a stop atop the ashy asphalt.

He looked at the ball like he wanted to strangle it, but, it was just a ball, after all.

Growling, he heard the familiar pings and pangs of the machine preparing to spit out another. Ben shifted his attention back to it frustratedly, readying himself once again.

Click, click, KERCH.

Nothing happened.

Ben waited a moment longer, but still, no ball. Lowering his KHyber, he sneered impatiently and walked over to the machine, which had begun shaking intensely. He studied it from a step away, realizing that it had been jammed. Well… he was a technician, so there was no conceivable way that he couldn't repair a simple automated pitching machine. Resting a hand on the old, rough metal, Ben squatted down and studied the paneling. Noting the R2 model, a number of prehistoric knobs and switches—without labels, no less—stared back at him expectantly. After a moment of calculated guesswork and the confused narrowing of his brow, the lone man braved the flick of a yellow-knobbed switch.

The machine suddenly stopped its rattling, and Ben sat back into a squat with a pleased smirk. Perhaps, he thought, trading a life of riches and glory might actually be worth it...

It only took a few seconds for him to change his mind.

The pitcher began to quake and sputter more resolutely than before, shaking back and forth on its thin metallic legs. Letting loose a frustrated growl, Ben pressed down on the top of the machine and flipped another switch. Then another. Then another. Then another. His desperation may have been humorous if not for the intense glare to which the innocent R2 had fallen victim.

When a thin plume of smoke trailed from the crevices of the machine like an air-bound snake, Ben stood and backed away from the trembling beast with a wide, dark-eyed stare of anger and fear.

And as he stood there, staring down at the quaking device, Benjamin Alder Solo officially decided that he'd had enough.

In less than a parsec, the bat was back in his hand, and he started madly thrashing about the deserted batting cage.

As of this moment, Ben is hitting the chain-link walls of Coruscant Cages, 4556 Core Crt., lane 6.

His heart beating rapidly in his chest, Ben whirls about and continues to hammer his smooth, copper-finished KHyber Kylo 9000 against the rattling metal cage merely a few paces from the machine that, he would claim, started this whole mess.

The shouts and curses sputtering from his mouth fills the warehouse, battling for supremacy over the clanking and banging against the fence. Long hair mats to his neck with sweat, his carefully gelled hair falls into disarray, and dark bangs plaster aimlessly against his forehead. Frame shaking with tumultuous rage, his lips fold in on themselves to reveal the sharp sneer of his fury. Tightening his grip on the bat to the point of denting the metal, Ben places more and more power into every strike, every blow he can land on the helpless batting cages. But even that is not enough to quell his heated animosity towards his misfortune.

A hesitant sputter suddenly sounds from the unit, inciting stillness in Ben. Eye twitching, he turns slowly to see the shining chrome of the R2 Automatic Pitcher.

His intense gaze suddenly becomes tranquil, and the deep, growling frown etched from his lips just a moment before becomes a satiated look of indifference. Of course. How could he not have seen it before? He turns fully from the walls of the cage, and his heavy steps echo like an omen across the still and sinister space. He reaches the R2, his tall shadow looming threateningly over the helpless object—like a predator cornering its prey.

Rationality forsaken, Ben twirls the bat menacingly at his side, and lifts it above his head like an executioner's ax. His dark eyes are tormented with a thirst for revenge, and the smallest hint of a malicious smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. He suddenly imagines the face of his father, the face of his varsity coach, the face of the doctor telling him that he will never play again.

Building the power in his arms, tightening the grip on the handle of his precious heirloom, Ben roars and swings downwa–

"Hey!"

Ben freezes, the edge of his bat hovering centimeters from the jittering chrome, and blinks. Confused, and rage suddenly paused, he looks up to see a young woman in a thick, khaki jumpsuit and boots holding a bulky toolbox, staring at him accusingly.

Not moving from his position—legs spread shoulder-width apart and hair scattered as appropriately across his features as a mental patient's—of nearly hitting the trembling R2, Ben's crazed eyes narrow. "What?!"

The girl doesn't move either, unintimidated by his appearance and bark, and points a finger in his direction. "That's company property," she calls brusquely down the aisle.

At the moment, Ben really, really doesn't care. But with his rage subsided, if only by distraction, he knows that he won't be able to replace some shabby old pitching machine with a brand new one. Not with his salary.

The girl suddenly paces down the aisle towards him, watching him with concern. Not a gentle concern, no… More like she isn't afraid to snatch the bat right out of his hand and hit him over the head with it if he even tries to pull something. "Drop it," she warns calmly.

Her instruction comes off as a threat to Ben, and though she is much smaller than him, he knows that this strange girl might actually hurt him if provoked. Hit with a strange instinct to obey, Ben lowers his bat slowly, frowning. She waves her hand at him impatiently, a silent order to back away. Before he can think about what he's doing or why he's doing it, he obeys, stepping back from the clanking, smoking machine. As she crouches in front of the side panel, ignoring him completely, he realizes that he had never met anyone so... fascinating.

Her rich hair is tied into three buns running down the back of her head, and several flyaway locks stick out from her scalp and glow white in the artificial light. Her eyes are dismissive yet focused, and her jumpsuit is dirt-ridden and flecked with paint and grime. But there is a strange, dare he think, beauty to it.

Ben notices a name tag stitched into her jumpsuit, but he can't quite make it out. Shouldering his bat, his posture becomes rigid and still. Attempting to act nonchalant, he watches her quick fingers switch off the knobs he had mistakenly activated. The girl groans in mild exasperation as the machine continues to quake, and she leans into her toolbox and pulls out a screwdriver from the mass of other screwdrivers.

As her hands work to rapidly remove the paneling, and Ben continues to stare, she glances at him. "A KHyber?" she asks knowingly, nodding to the bat in his hand and turning back to a falling screw.

Ben blinks, surprised that she had identified his weapon of choice so quickly. "...Yes."

The screws finally out, the girl removes the heavy panel and bends to set it on the floor beside her with a tangle of wires chasing after it, and a rolling plume of smoke chasing after her. Taking the opportunity, Ben glances at her name tag. Rey, it says.

He accidentally hms to himself, and neither of them notice. Pulling out a pair of gloves from her box, Rey dons them and plunges her hands into the mess of wires, squinting her eyes and turning away from the plume of smoke, wrinkling her nose. Within moments of her rooting around, a sudden snap resounds through the air, and the machine goes from its obnoxious clanking to the soothing whir of blissful operation.

"How did you do that?" Ben asks, awe glazing his voice.

Rey shrugs. "I've always had a gift for mechanics," she reasons. She looks up at him, and her wide brown eyes suddenly catch him off guard. He doesn't hear what she says, and is left standing there like an incompetent, sweating imbecile. He blinks slowly, eyes opening to a narrow of feigned—yet entirely legitimate—confusion. "...What?"

She points to the spout of the R2 unit, an impatient tightening stretching her lips to reveal perfectly white teeth as she drawls, "The front of the pitcher. Go look inside and see if the rotator belt is spinning."

An urge to become defensive and retort with sharp defiance threatens to overcome Ben, but he is too disoriented and confused to formulate a proper sentence. "Fine," he acquiesces dumbly, hoping as he trudges over to the front of the machine that this odd girl will leave soon.

She is rather impressive, though, he reasons. With whom, he does not know. Setting the KHyber down on the hard stone with a metallic clank, he bends his knees and winces, placing his palms against them to brace himself. He looks into the wide nozzle, eyes darting around the dark insides for a rotator belt. He sighs irritably. "I don't see anything."

"It should be on the right," Rey instructs. Instinctively, Ben's eyes shift just past the opening of the pitcher to look at her. She is readjusting the wires, brushing past the tangled mass of chords with a deft fluidity that exudes professionalism; that leaves even him stunned. Her small nose and toned complexion are much more noticeable from his new angle, and he cannot deny that he appreciates the view—

Click, click, sput!

Ben doesn't have enough time to dodge the ball that comes flying out of the machine. Within a fraction of a second, his nose is reduced to splinters in his skull.

Surprised, he cries out and falls backward onto the asphalt, the flow of blood quickly thinning over his lips and chin. He lays on his back for just a moment, attempting to grasp his bearings and chase away the stars of shock and pain. His gloved hand goes to cover himself, and a shadow falls over him.

Wincing, he stares up into the face of Rey, who stands above him with hands fisted against her hips, the stadium lights glowing angelically behind her. Am I… dead? He wonders.

"Are you okay?"

Ben groans, gently prodding his damaged face. Just touching it is enough to send a rippling sensation of pain through his entire body. Forcing himself to sit up, he jolts as he suddenly realizes that Rey has crouched in front of him, extending a small towel in his direction. Assessing her with a quick once-over to make sure her gesture isn't some trick, he slowly takes it from her hand and applies it to his bleeding nose.

"Is it broken?" Rey asks, genuinely concerned—or perhaps curious.

He couldn't tell. Ben nods, and moves to stand. She stands with him, grimacing as the blood begins to show through the cloth. "Maybe you should go to the hospital," she offers, a nervous smile itching to take over her face.

That strikes a chord in Ben, and he flinches away from her. "No, I'll be fine," he assures through the towel. His eyes stay on her all the while, torn between blaming her for breaking his nose and marveling at her startling ability to remain completely neutral in such an odd situation.

"Alright," she says slowly, obviously unconvinced. "Well… take that with you," she insists, gesturing to his towel. "I'll have Finn give you a refund for the cage. Are you okay to drive?"

"Don't," he presses sharply, pain ripping through his skull. "...I walked here. I'm perfectly capable of getting home on my own."

Rey snickers good-naturedly. "Sure. Okay." She turns and picks up her toolbox, brushing her gloves against her suit. "Sorry that the R2 didn't work for you. It hasn't functioned well for years. Something about 'low-power mode...'"

Ben studies her for a moment as she stands in front of him. Her stance is strong and sure, demanding authority, and he suddenly feels compelled to kneel. He doesn't, and instead settles for lamely asking, "How did you know that the pitcher wasn't working?"

Rey's lips fold slightly and she points behind him, towards the joint connection of the ceiling and the wall. Still holding the towel to his nose, mouth agape to chase away the pain, and eyes wide in a sudden sense of apprehension, Ben looks up to see a camera staring back at him with a cold sense of superiority.

He huffs, a weak smile of ill fate pulling at the ends of his open mouth. "Of course."

"Cameras picked up everything," Rey adds. "We were surprised that you didn't go for the R2 first."

Ben turns sharply to glare at her. "'We?'"

She shrugs and walks past him, gesturing for him to follow. "It doesn't matter. Come on, I'll get you your refund."

Clenching and unclenching his jaw in silent fury, Ben's face reddens with embarrassment and a weary sense of surrender. With the metallic stench of blood chasing away his patience, he paces quickly after her, eager to get out of the cages he once treasured.

And he leaves the bat behind.