A somewhat relaxing stroll following the Sysweb's guidance through the crowded streets twelve minutes later (the lack of ridiculous incidents he attributed to KB (Administrative)'s stalking presence just behind his left shoulder), Brock found himself in front of a tall, nondescript three-story building clad in swirling marble, its facade slightly pitted with age but still proudly proclaiming itself the home of 'The Bahamut Park Sporting Complex And Explosion Enjoyment Zone' with a vibrantly illuminated sign over the double door entrance. The first two stories of the structure had a comforting bulk, broad glass windows inlaid within the substantial walls like portals for natural light, but the third story had more of a slapdash appearance, almost as if it had been added at some later point in time, or frequently replaced.

As Brock's eyes traced the third story's flimsy-looking construction, a blast of flame and smoke blew out an entire section of wall, sending it hurtling in a shower of blazing debris, but it was nothing compared to the volcanic eruption bursting from the top of the building. He flinched in anticipation of the inevitable impact of wood and concrete, but massive glowing golden ropes whipped out from the second level walls, eerily similar in nature to a killbot's tentaclegs, and the scattered detritus was swiftly reassembled into its previous formation as an ostensible building.

"Uhhh, whut?"

"Alchemists," KB (Administrative) sniffed. "Chemical-ridden savages obsessed with exothermic reactions. Ignore them and their ridiculous clubhouse. The only things in there are disappointment and body odor."

Brock didn't trust himself to answer. Instead, he made his way up the shallow steps to the sliding glass front door, only flinching twice more at accompanying explosions from the third floor.

"This is, uhhh, normal?"

"It's an 'Explosion Enjoyment Zone,' meatbag," KB (Adminstrative) sighed theatrically. "Try to pay attention to the signs."

Brock was spared from a response by the receptionist waiting just inside the entrance lobby.

"Hello, and welcome to the Bahamut Park Sporting Complex And Explosion Enjoyment Zone, formerly known as 'Kick It If You Think You're Hard Enough!'" the feathered velociraptor lurking behind a low-set desk that did nothing to hide the wicked talons flexing along muscled nightmare legs screeched, tilting its head at Brock as if contemplating the best way to disembowel him. "My name is Vivian! How can I help you!"

Brock tried to keep from pooping himself in sheer atavistic terror. Vivian was wearing a nametag, somehow pinned in her chest plumage, that read "Hi! My name is Vivian she/her/Viv! Ask me about backheels!"

"...mmrp. Uhhh... gnggghk... soccer?"

Vivian bobbed her raptor head disarmingly, revealing a murderer's row of needle sharp teeth.

"Oh! Of course! The pickup no-skills game is on level two, third field!" A serpentine neck stretched towards Brock's face, her feather-framed eyes blinking coquettishly. "I'd be playing, you know." A horrifying wink, nictating membranes sliding sideways, then up and down. "If I wasn't on desk duty today." The rows of teeth somehow stretched wider. "So much more fun than those stuffy explosion addicts, am I right?"

The unfamiliar prehistoric creature, clad in brilliant plumage that Brock simply couldn't process, giggled in a disconcertingly human manner, and it was like a megaton hammer-tap on the thin crystal pane of sanity that he'd managed to erect each day in this strange new world.

"Level two, field three, pickup soccer game, got it," he repeated with a rictus smile. "Thanks, Viv," he giggled madly, "the velociraptor."

"You're very welcome," Viv replied, fluttering the downy feathers above her eyes at him again. "Have fun! Stairs are over there, levitation lift is just past them!"

Brock gave her a wave as he marched away from the receptionist desk, not bothering to think about whatever a levitation lift was. KB (Administrative) fell into step behind him.

"Are you copacetic, meatbag? Your vitals are fluctuating alarmingly."

"Heh, yeah, it's fine, KB (Administrative)," Brock said cheerily, taking the stairs two at a time. "I'm pretty sure a velociraptor just flirted with me, so what's there to worry about? It's my day off. I'm gonna go play soccer. What could possibly be stranger than what just happened?"

KB (Administrative) offered no further comment as Brock summited the second floor, emerging into a broad locker room that was currently empty of people, as well as the normal smells of sweat and brewing fungus that Brock was used to encountering in such environments.

"...why does it smell like pine needles and sunshine, KB (Administrative)? Locker rooms are supposed to reek of stank and ass."

"...your former world's assumptions are a nightmare, meatbag. Does no one there understand the germ theory of disease? Disinfectants and regular washing are the bare minimum of civilization."

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Brock looked around, finally spotting a door at the far left end leading to what he assumed was the actual playing areas, and he headed towards it.

"Look, I get it if you don't get it, KB (Administrative), but there's a certain, well, ambience to a locker room," Brock declared with the supreme assertiveness of someone whose knowledge of locker rooms was relegated to public schooling and second-hand accounts. "They accumulate... uhhh, an athletic musk that non-athletes aren't expected to be familiar with." He took a deep whiff of the unnaturally clean air, then coughed. "Clearly this isn't a serious training facility if-"

KB (Administrative)'s response was to open the door with one tentacleg and shove him through it with another, the mass of the killbot's body forcing Brock to stumble out onto a pristinely manicured field of grass divided into three full length pitches, immaculately lined touch and end-lines drawing the eye towards three pairs of perfectly taut goal nets set at opposite ends.

Brock tried not to fall to his knees in shock. It looked like each individual blade of grass had been hand cut in order to keep each field at a consistent level, and there wasn't a single dead patch of dirt or invasive lump of weedy tufts to disrupt the carpet-like surface.

"...whut?"

Two of the fields were occupied with teams in contrasting jerseys working on various drills against each other, the pace of their passing almost incomprehensible to Brock. As he watched them, dumbfounded, a sequence of touches culminated in a striker double-flipping over an erupting spire of earth and then spinning around herself in a miniature tornado before volleying the laser-like cross her winger sent in as a literal laser towards the goal. The opposing goalie tried to spill the unblockable shot away towards the sideline, hands twisting to create a brief-mirror surface of pure air, but it wasn't enough to fully disrupt the lance of energy and the ball ended up crashing into the back of the net to cheers from the offense and muttered groans from the defense.

"..."

Brock was filled with equal parts awe, incomprehension, and jealousy, unable to verbalize his feelings.

"Ignore them, meatbag," KB (Administrative) declared imperiously. "Those are the skill-enabled practice fields." A tentacleg nudged him towards the third field, where a group of shabby looking players in mismatched gear were gathered in two separate groups. "There is nothing useful for you there. Your place is with those seeking the pure essence of the game."

"Uhhh, KB (Administrative), I don't-"

A tentacleg forced him into the nearest cluster of bodies, and Brock looked around nervously.

"Uhhh, hello, hi, uhhh-"

A wall of hostile eyes glared back at him, taking in his tracksuit attire, his nervous posture, and inevitably fixating on the thin, barely visible metal choker declaring him as a Sekkie.

"What the fuc-"

"-the shit is thi-"

"-oh hell no-"

"-rather cut off my-"

"...yo. Hold up."

The owner of the last voice silenced the rest, a reverberating echo of command, and Brock turned his head towards the speaker. A semi-hostile pair of sapphire eyes framed by a set of pointed ears pinned him in place.

"...the fuck you doing here, weird-ass Sekkie?"

Brock stared at the rainbow-mohawked person addressing him, trying to gather his thoughts in the face of an imminent lynching.

...I know you. Uhhh, at least, I know your face.

He glanced around at the other members of the circle, and sure enough, other familiar visages appeared.

"You're..." Brock pointed at a goblin in a black leather outfit that managed to blend in with the rest of the uniforms, skull earrings dangling near his neck, "Archibald, right?!"

The goblin scowled, but Brock didn't wait for an answer, instead shifting his attention to an android in the second row of bodies.

"And you're... Chad! Right? I'm right, right?" Brock exclaimed gleefully. "You guys are the, uhhh, 'Barmaroth Shearers?' We met the other night when you helped me find the way to my apartment!"

"Behemoth shearers," the elf facing Brock sighed, rubbing a heavily tattooed arm across his eyes. "And you're still a fucking weird-ass Sekkie. Why are you here?"

"I'm here to play soccer! It's my day off." Brock frowned, momentarily at a loss. "Sorry, I don't think I ever got your name."

The elf sighed again, pulling out his magiphone.

"My name's Mark. Lemme see your biosig."

Brock obligingly pressed his thumb to the proferred screen, producing the complicated sigil that apparently identified him. The elf looked at it, then shook his head and put his magiphone away.

"System still reads him as clear of any kill notices."

The rest of the group collectively groaned.

"So does that mean I can play?"

Mark cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Well, this is a no-skills game, which means you can't use any weird-ass shit like they're doing over there." He pointed to the other fields, where one of the players had morphed into a large panda and was currently dribbling a fireball around several defenders. "We're here to work on our teamwork and communication, not show off our skills."

"Gotta have teamwork and communication when you're up against a behemoth," the goblin, Archibald, added, glaring daggers at Brock. "Good way to lose a limb if you don't. They're ornery during shearing season."

"Right," Mark agreed, "good point, Archibald. Replacing a limb's always a pain." He returned his focus to Brock. "So I don't know what a Sekkie like you is going to get out of the experience. You nutters are all about using your skills all the time, right?"

"I just want to play soccer," Brock replied earnestly.

"The meatbag does not have game-related skills," KB (Administrative) chimed in from behind, "he is here simply to have fun." Mark rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Well, I guess if the kaybee vouches for you I suppose it's okay. Do you know how to play?"

Brock thought back to his soccer experiences, which had involved him tripping on his shoelaces, running into a goalpost, and getting hit in the face repeatedly with the ball.

"Uhhh, you kick the ball into the goal, right?"

The group broke out into excited murmuring.

"He doesn't know how to play," Archibald exclaimed happily, eyes lighting up. Mark smiled as he draped an arm over Brock's shoulders, and Brock tensed up, expecting yet another rejection.

Of course they're not going to let me play. I don't know anything about the game other than 'ball goes in the goal.' I was stupid for coming here.

"Weird-ass Sekkie," Mark began, "today is your lucky day. Team Fancy Fleece is going to teach you everything you need to know about playing soccer."

"More credits for the kaiju vacation fund!" the rest of the group cheered, and Brock felt a smile break out across his face. Maybe his day off would be fun after all.