Muejiza | A Series of MLB fanfictions

Statistically Correct

Love was not a logical emotion.

Attraction was not statistical. It could not be explained by science or mathematics. With affection, there were no data plots or binary codes or programming tricks to be whipped out of one's hat at any given moment. There was only mush and flitting hormones and absolute failure to communicate between the two fated individuals. It was not useful or productive or even slightly methodical.

Besides, who had time for love when you had video games to design and a highly persistent robot that needed your undying loyalty and attention twenty-four seven?

"Max? Max! Maaaaxxxx!" Markov cried out, zipping through the halls, a panicked emoticon displayed on his monitor. He darted past the chemistry lab and sped around the turn to the stairs sharply, narrowly dodging the perfectly painted fingernails that flew viciously through the air in the hopes of seizing him. "MAX! Someone! Help me! She's trying to rip out my processor!"

"I'M GOING TO PROCESS YOU WHEN I GET AHOLD OF YOU, YOU LITTLE CREEP!" Chloe Bourgeois screamed as she slid past the stairs and nearly smashed face-first into a wall.

At the sound of her abnormally furious tone (and let's be honest, over ninety-six percent of the time, the blond was furious about something) and her audacious threats against his robot, Max carefully lifted his wielding visor and cautiously peeked out of the mechanics' lab to see what all the commotion was about. The scene unfolding before him was hilarious, but Max needed a moment to take it all in, blinking and inhaling sharply as he watched Chloe try and fail to look dignified as Markov swept back around the banisters and cheekily glided past her to hide behind his creator.

"LET ME AT THAT MONSTER!"

And just like that, Chloe was bearing down on him, the intensity of her brimming temper enough to send any words of serenity--honestly, any words at all--fluttering from his head like Hawkmoth's cleansed akuma. Max cringed and nearly bent over backward to avoid what would most likely have been a painful collision, adjusting his glasses fearfully as he did so. Markov was hovering dangerously close to his neck which he suddenly feared the mayor's daughter might try and wring if he didn't splutter out something coherent soon.

"C-chloe!" he tried to protest. "W-what are you d-doing? What, ahhhh..." He gulped, gesturing behind his back for Markov to retreat inside the lab while he dealt with his very erratic classmate. "C-can I...help you?"

"Yes!" Chloe snapped, putting her hands on her hips and glaring down at him with a huff. "You can step aside and tell me where your pathetic excuse for a robot is hiding!"

"I didn't even do anything!" Markov's metallic voice protested from behind the teacher's desk. Max mentally face-palmed. So much for hiding. "I was simply implying that such patterns do not typically match in most fashion choices! I wasn't insulting you!"

"Oh, that--MOVE IT, KANTE, OR I'M TAKING YOU DOWN ALONG WITH YOUR LOUSY MACHINE!" She quickly shoved him aside and marched into the classroom. Max yelped and scrambled after her, throwing his arms wide, trying to shield Markov with his body.

"Now, hold on just a moment!" he tried to reason. "Why don't we all just calm down and talk about this? I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation if we could just--"

"Nope! No! No talking! Now, be a good boy and step aside," Chloe interjected, waving him off like some kind of peasant, looking mildly unimpressed as he dug in his heels and refused to budge. "Move away, Max!" the blond went on, growling, her expression resembling something close to murder.