Beyond a few little experiments (and the obligatory futile search for ways out of Wonderland) Mark hasn't felt the need to exercise the power granted by the event. Mark has remained himself, no imaginary friends or family members have come to visit, and his room has remained his room
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What's this?
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"It's a baseball game. Sort of."
Although when he's looking at her instead of the game, the action on the field slows down, becomes a bit muddier. The sounds remain unchanged, loud and clear, but they don't quite sync up--you might hear the crack of a bat an instant before it actually connects.
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Turn back around!
Facepap.
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But he turns back around.
"What was that for?"
Meanwhile, the current batter's been tagged out at first--now at normal speed.
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At the moment a new batter is heralded by an organ intro, as well as a round of cheers--and taunts--from the nonexistent crowd.
Mark half turns. He can't help it, it's what you do when you're talking to someone, and he's pleased that she's interested.
"Stay as long as you want."
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You keep messing it up. Stop that!
Terezi crawls over the bleachers and sits next to Mark. There, now you don't have to turn around.
Okay. So those blueberries there use that wooden clubbing device to hit the ball, right? Are they winning?
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But ok. Baseball.
"Blue and white are the Yankees. They're losing right now, by a point."
It occurs to him that this will be easier to explain if both teams weren't wearing blue. The trim on the away team's clothing suddenly turns red. They are now watching a Yankees/Red Sox game.
"Red's defending their lead."
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She points vaguely at the entire fucking game.
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"They're trying to keep the other team from scoring--from hitting the ball and running the bases."
But who knows if that made any sense to her.
"It's sort of like tag combined with catch, if you know what that means."
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