[ TT ] Hilda is a Valkyrie , one of the oldest . She 's collected the souls of many a great warrior and war hero ... even an accountant , once . Still shes is quite surprised to find herself in a school playground to collect the soul of a very confused 9 year old child .

The miniature baseball field was painted in greys, the small figures on it frozen in action. The memory of motion persisted, thrumming against the temporary hold Hilda had placed like water trying to boil under a heavy lid. She did n't know what had called her to such a place -- in her millennia of service, she'd retrieved a spare dozen children. 
 
 She moved across the field, her full-sized stride eating up space like a giant in Fenway. It was fairly obvious what had happened, even without the benefit of motion. The tall fence behind home plate was laying horizontally on the ground, flat aside from the small body crushed underneath it. From the position of the child's body, it had been attempting to escape the fall. 
 
 The same child was standing a foot away from its body, its soul the only source of color aside from Hilda herself. The child turned to stare at her, confusion on its face as it looked up from its body. There were three emotions that Hilda was accustomed to dealing with -- confusion was better than anger, but generally more taxing than fear. 
 
 It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out retrieval, but Hilda was curious. Why was a nine year old being taken to Valhalla? Hilda prided herself on her work, and had never mistakenly brought an unworthy soul to her home. She was not about to start now. 
 
 `` Who are you, child?'' she asked, voice echoing in the frozen moment. 
 
 `` K... Katie, miss,'' the child said, staring almost straight up as Hilda towered over her. 
 
 Hilda surveyed their surroundings with suspicion. She'd seen battlefields of all sorts -- martial, political, romantic and domestic. A school playground was new. `` Are you of a line of warriors, Katie?'' 
 
 `` Huh?'' The child blinked, and seemed to remember herself. `` Miss?'' 
 
 `` Your family, girl,'' Hilda said, irritated. `` Are they accustomed to battle?'' This child did not seem worthy -- had she truly been sent here mistakenly? 
 
 `` Um... my mom is a bus driver,'' she said. 
 
 Hilda sighed, casting her gaze about for a clue, any clue. `` How did you die, child?'' 
 
 `` I died?'' Katie did not seem surprised -- rather, it seemed as though a suspicion had been confirmed. She looked around, then pointed at the fence over her body. `` The backstop fell over. I tried to get everyone out of the way, but... I was n't fast enough.'' 
 
 Hilda stopped her fruitless search and turned her attention back to the child's body. She had died saving others... a hero's death, true, but not a warrior's. There were places for heroes, psychopomps for the virtuous, but she was called only in specific cases. 
 
 `` What were you doing here?'' Hilda asked, looking once more at the field. 
 
 `` Kickball, miss,'' Katie said, standing a little straighter as she said it. 
 
 Hilda recognized the tone in her voice, and instantly understood. `` I see. Are you good at... kickball?'' 
 
 Katie nodded, in that curious way that children have that makes one think their heads are about to snap off their necks. `` I'm the best in the school!'' 
 
 Everything clicked into place as Hilda saw the field with new eyes. These soft times did not allow children to take up arms, but war was waged in many forms. `` And these children... they respect your skill?'' 
 
 `` Well...'' Katie began, suddenly hesitant once more. `` They know I'm good at kickball. They still make fun of me sometimes.'' 
 
 Hilda nodded, smiling kindly. Her presence was not a mistake after all. `` And you feel most comfortable playing kickball?'' 
 
 Katie smiled. `` Yeah, miss. It... it just makes more sense. Sometimes I do n't know why they make fun of me. But I can kick really good.'' 
 
 Hilda nodded, surveying the frozen children around the two of them with scorn. `` Words and accusations are the tools of the weak. Manipulation is the weapon of cowards.'' 
 
 Katie sighed. `` I wish school was more like kickball. This is the only time anyone likes me.'' 
 
 Hilda smiled. The life of a warrior was hard, defined not by blood but by struggle. But warriors fight on, through heartbreaking losses and hard-won victories. They do this not because they wish to, nor because of some great principle. True warriors, the kind that were worthy of Hilda's attention, fight because it is the only thing that makes sense -- it is all they *can* do. 
 
 `` Come, Katie,'' Hilda said, taking her hand in her own. `` There is a place where kickball is the only thing that matters.'' 
 
 `` That sounds *awesome*,'' Katie said, squeezing Hilda's hand tight as they began the long walk back.
