Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's terrible, of course.

The Shoe Thieves shouldn't even be playing anymore. They won. Stu won, and when Esme looks at her she can see the anger and frustration beneath the fear and anguish. A hit pulled from every sports movie, and none of them can celebrate.

Jess is playing the same position she always does. When Esme is up to bat, they meet her eyes. There's nothing there. Her unfocused gaze reminds Esme of a sleepwalker.

It earns them a strike, something they can feel in their chest. They're losing. The scoreboard isn't working but she can tell without counting that the Thieves are on the backfoot (ha). On instinct, she swings, and makes it to first.

And that's the thing, isn't it? This is...indescribable, an experience she'll have nightmares about for years. But as they line themself up to steal second, everything feels right. She's staring down a god and something clicks. This is where she's meant to be.

Later, she tries to explain it and only partly succeeds. It's the end of the world and something in Esme sings with it, she gets out and it feels like burning alive, Games hits a triple and she's grinning, because all that fucking practice finally paid off.

They lose, and Esme plays like shit, and Jess gets an effortless home run to end it all, and it's terrifying, and she wants so badly to do it again.

(She's in the locker room, her friends on their way. Her vision is fading around the edges, but not enough for it to be a problem. She looks at her team, her wonderful teammates, clutching phones or pacing or sitting stock still like their lives depend on it. Esme decides then and there that no matter how much she hungers for it, she won't drag her friends along with her.)

Her hands never stop shaking, even when the addictive feeling of power fades away and she's left sitting in the middle of an empty, destroyed field. Soaked in blood from nobody. Leaving unanswered voicemails.

---

It's wonderful, of course.

In retrospect, Jessica wishes she was in more control. What little she can remember of the game is pure euphoria, and as she sits, bored out of her mind, waiting for a year to pass, she curses how little of the experience she can relive.

(Someone says that this is the plan, with a grin. Keep them benched long enough and they'll be so eager to play that they'll do it for anyone. Well, maybe it works for the rest of them. Even if Jessica could pick team in the leauge, she'd still play for the Pods.)

Really, its her own fault that it took her so long to regain awareness. She got too attached. Made it nearly impossible to let go.

Nearly. Once she hit that home run, staring into Hotdogfinger's terrified eyes, the vindication calls her right back.

Before the field is filled with the screams of Thieves, she hears a cheer from the dugout. Wyatt Quitter. It's the first noise any of the Pods have made.

The two of them are the first to come back to themselves, first to relish the win. The Thieves aren't the best in the leauge, sure, but they put up a decent fight. Both of them decide it's worth a bit of celebration. At least, while they're still alone.

Someone sneaks behind the stadium, after, to tell Wyatt that the Tacos will save them. They laugh so hard it brings tears to their eyes. They don't want to go back to speed running losses any more than Jessica wants to play in Philly.

Which, she doesn't. She's happy here. They all are. Nothing beats playing at your fullest potential with people of your caliber.

(Not that Jessica ever needed help to be incredible. Everyone knows it, she's the best in the leauge.)

Esme keeps calling her. Incessantly. It's hilarious, so she doesn't bother blocking the number.

And after another fucking year of not doing anything, they take the field again, and the crowd goes wild.

(Cheers, screams, does it matter?)

And Jessica has never felt better.

Chapter Text

The Lover's uniform is pretty simple, all things considered. White jersey over red long sleeves and a high collar. Light grey pants, softer than the ones she's used to. Simple high-top cleats with sharp metal spikes (She's learned to pay attention to shoes in the past year).

She spends the second half of her time alone in the stadium examining her outfit and contemplating how little she knows (or used to know, or remembers) about the Lovers.

The first half is spent trying to process what the hell had happened.

She did it. It was messy, she needed help, she betrayed her team, again, on both sides, but she fucking did it. And apparently, that means she gets to live.

And that's the best part, isn't it? This whole thing started because Jaylen died and nobody could accept it. They brought her back and she fought for her right to stay. She got traded back. And traded again. And traded again. And--

(She stands on the mound, uniform a sickening blur close to purple. She doesn't recognize the person in front of her. She hates them with every drop of her blood. As obviously as she can, she winks. The batter pauses, adjusting their stance. She throws a low ball and it burns like salt in a cut. It's the realest thing she's felt in a while.)

But even through this success (the one she's proudest of by far), she stole life from yet another person. The brother of one of her few friends.

If there was ever any chance of the Thieves forgiving her, it's gone for good.

The guilt doesn't fade, exactly, instead settling into a familiar buzz at the back of her head. Old habits. She deserves to be here. She's earned her place, again. Her plan worked. The peanut's dead. Everything else is secondary. Time to take stock.

No phone. She's not surprised. Objects aren't as good with feedback as bodies are.

The stadium's dark. For the most part. Over her shoulder, she spots a small flickering light by the concessions. After some trial and error, she pulls herself up and stumbles over to it. This is where she examines her uniform.

(She had always meant to visit San Francisco, eventually.)

Half leaning against the brick wall, Jaylen rolls up her sleeves. A couple nasty scrapes, some blood under her nails, the usual. She... feels fine, psychically.

Her hands are shaking slightly, but they look present enough. She stares at them for two minutes and they don't flicker once. That's good.

So, to do list: find people, probably the Lovers. Get her stuff from Charleston, if it's still there. Move??? Find a place to stay, anyway. Call Mike. Call Theo. Call...Stu.

(It's the right thing to do. Even if she gets hung up on. Or if she spaces out while Stu yells at her. It's good etiquette to talk to the family after you kill someone, she realizes that now. Better late than never.)

(...maybe it could wait until morning.)

Jaylen's sitting against the wall, head tilted back and eyes half closed, when she hears someone messing with the gate. Multiple someones. Shakily, she gets to her feet.

Four people in street clothes (Lovers players, they have to be. She should know them.) round the corner. The first one (a young woman with pink hair pulled into a braid. Guerra. Yes.) stops in front of her, eyebrows raised. She doesn't look that surprised.

Jaylen tries to smile. "Hi."

Guerra tilts her head to the side. She looks tired, not that Jaylen's anywhere near in a position to judge. "...hello, Jaylen. Welcome to San Francisco."

Everyone collectively decides to put the important stuff off for a night, and Jaylen ends up laying on a couch in the players lounge. Physical exhaustion eventually outweighs her racing thoughts, and she's able to sleep for a few hours before being jolted awake by a nightmare that she can't remember.

(Jaylen hardly ever got dreams Before. She doesn't like them.)

The next day is a blur. Mike's gone, because it always has to be him, doesn't it. The rest of the shelled players are okay, all on different teams. Pitching machine's on the Garages. She smiles when she hears that. They'll fit right in.

The hall players are back, too. They don't play anymore, but they're alive. Jaylen thinks that's a nice reward, after everything.

(A bitter part of her reminds her how close she was. One more switch, one less, and she would've been out. It hurts. Jaylen loves blaseball. Loved.

She's very, very tired.)

The crabs are gone, nobody's really sure where they went. The moon is gone, either swallowed by a black hole, which isn't how that works, or knocked out of the sky by Tot Fox. Somehow, the second feels more believable. This game has never made sense, why would it start now?

The Lovers are friendly enough. A bit quiet, a bit reserved. General post-election picking-up-the-pieces. Jaylen doesn't take it personally.

She picks up her stuff at the last possible second, the day before game one. She hasn't checked who they're playing. She isn't pitching. She's going to the game anyway.

And its lonely, and the guilt isn't gone. Redemption doesn't mean total forgiveness, she knows that.

(Is this even a redemption? Does it have to be?)

Sleeping's hard. Pitching's hard. But things are better than they've been in a while.

That's all she can ask for, really.

Chapter Text

Jess holds the phone in her hand like it'll bite her any second. Seb wants to laugh at her, except he's not much better, two different instruction books balanced on his lap.

"Okay, so I think you just hold the up arrow key, and then you say your name."

"Just my name, nothing else?"

Seb shrugs. "This says it fills the rest in for you."

"Huh." Jess fiddles with the menu for a little longer (Seb leans in over her shoulder to see, she pushes him away), then nods. "Okay! Yeah, this is it, definitely."

"Oh, yeah, definitely," Seb repeats, grinning. Jess waves a hand at him to get him to be quiet, as an automated voice comes from the small speakers of the flip phone. Then, a beep. She blinks rapidly a few times. "Uh...Jessica Telephone?"

There's another beep, and Jess sighs, trying desperately to hide her smile. It doesn't work. "Don't--"

It's too late. Seb's already laughing. "It-- it sounded like that was your first time saying your name."

"Whatever, I'll just do it again."

Fifteen minutes later, it becomes clear that neither of them will ever figure out how to do it again.

"Fine," Jess says, hanging upside down on the couch. She drops her phone onto the carpet. "I give up. And you need to do yours."

Seb, squeezed between the couch and the coffee table, retrieves his own phone (a completely different model and color, so that they didn't get mixed up) and the instructions from behind him.

He's not sure if it's easier to figure out because of the model or his previous success. Either way, he gets to the menu a lot faster than his sister.

"Watch this," he says, talking over the instructions and nudging Jess (gently, so she doesn't fall). There's a reason everyone always thinks that she's the older one: she has enough confidence for the both of them. Seeing her so deeply out of her element like this is hilarious. Almost cathartic.

And maybe it's just his normal streak of competitiveness, and maybe its immature, but he really wants to have a better voicemail than her.

The beep comes too soon, and it takes Seb a second to remember what he's doing.

"Sebastian Telephone," he says. Perfect.

...except the last syllable gets cut off. Just barely.

Jess looks at him, eyebrows raised. "You really showed me, huh?"

"Shut up!" Seb tries to keep his face even. He fails. "Quality over quantity, or something."

"That doesn't even-- Whatever. Fine. Just confuse people about your name forever."

"I'm not worried about that." Seb pulls himself back up onto the couch. "Everyone'll know my name, pretty soon."

"Yeah? Think you'll beat me to it?"

Seb holds out his hand to shake. "Better get used to living in my shadow now, friend."

Jess takes his hand with a sharp grin. "Never," she says, and promptly falls headfirst off the couch.

--

She does a great job of ignoring it.

The week that she's back, all of her brainpower is focused on processing the world around her without falling into an overstimulated panic attack. Playing the game well and looking nice for the cameras doesn't require much thought anymore. It takes her an hour into her first game to push past the fuzz of her isolation to find the muscle memory. It's an easy act to put on, after that.

Even with the anger, half irrational, she feels for the game. And the fans, and the commissioner, and the parasite reporters who set up camp outside of the Philly stadium.

Learning about the Tigers falling apart doesn't help. Vaguely, she thinks that she should reach out, but it's not like she was there for that long, anyway. What would she even say? "Hey, Figueroa, I know I cut contact with the team three years ago, but I wanted to say that I heard what happened to your dad and your friend and your other friend and uh, sorry, I guess."

(Jess has plenty of practice distancing herself from the people she cares about, by choice or by force. Pretending she didn't see the Tigers as a family at one point is easy.)

And then her brother dies.

Because why not, y'know? Clearly, she's had it much too good for much too long, ever since everyone took one look at her and decided she was too talented to stay in her hometown. And she hates that she's making his death about herself, because gods know he'd hate her for it, but everyone else is. She's seen the headlines. What's a little more selfishness?

(The first thing she does when she gets out is hit the ball, because that is what she's supposed to do, and the crowd goes wild and she grimaces under her helmet as she runs but even while the sound tears her apart after so much silence it sounds like heaven, it sounds like everything is right again because she is performing and her audience likes what they see.)

She remembers to cover her face in public. She plays. She keeps her eyes on her teammates and on Hotdogfingers. And things feel about as normal as they could be.

One night, she's at a bar she doesn't know the name of (New York has a lot of those), and she's drinking more than she should if she wants to play above average tomorrow. She's squeezed into a booth between her teammates, and the alcohol and warmth and music mix into a hum that blocks out all other thoughts.

She's genuinely happy. For the first time in a while.

Her teammates are talking about something stupid, probably something to do with plane tickets. Jess has her phone in her hand, flipping through nothing in particular. It's old, dented by a few drops too many, but the battery still works fine and the signal is surprisingly good, so she keeps it around.

A few tables away, someone leaves a voicemail. (She's not sure how she makes it out. It's a busy night, and the person has their back to her) She looks down at the phone in her hands, back over to the table, and makes a connection.

"Shit!" she says loudly, and flips through the settings menu with a renewed purpose. Half her team is staring at her.

"Uh..."

"Jess, y'alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, does anyone know how to change the voicemail on these things?" It feels important. She can't remember why.

Someone gets her to the right screen and hands the phone back. Someone else cracks a joke about Jessica Telephone being so hopeless with technology. It's not really that funny, but everyone's been so tense lately that it sends the entire table into loud giggles.

(Jess thinks about her name at the top of the idol board. She thinks about where it is now. She thinks about hearing them cheer for her, in the stands and with their money and votes and idols.)

The phone beeps. She stops laughing long enough to shout "You know who it is!"

Chapter Text

They find him first, while he's straitening out his locker. Technically, they shouldn't be at the stadium. They have caution tape wrapped around the doors and everything. But, he figures, what are they going to do if he's caught, kick him out?

Point is. Someone with a pencil behind one ear and a bag slung over their shoulder knocks on the door frame.

Dunlap startles at the noise, whipping around to face the door. The person's excited smile fades a bit, and they take a step back. Their eyes carefully avoid her own. Damn it. He takes a deep breath and wills his eyes to stop...doing whatever they're doing.

"Oh-- sorry, sorry, didn't mean to. Anyway, we just finished up on the field." They tap their fingers on the door frame and laugh a little. "I kinda figured you'd want to be one of the first to see it."

Dunlap doesn't force herself to smile; it wouldn't look right anyway. "Thank you," she responds simply.

"No problem. And uh, good luck tomorrow!" Then, they're gone.

She stands alone in the empty locker room for a few more moments. Hangs up the sweatshirt she was holding, closes her locker, and spins the dial.

The Amphitheater is beautiful. Astounding, more than it ever could've imagined.

She stops walking two steps in, hand covering their mouth. The seats go up and up and up, climbing so high that its a miracle they stand at all. They look to be carved of stone, though she doubts that it would be timely or comfortable to do so. The grass is neat and a healthy shade of deep red. The floodlights are tinted purple, casting everything in an errie shadow. The dugouts are freshly painted and scrubbed of any dust, striped in orange and black and white and, of course, more red. The gate is silent when she tests it, the previously sticky latch moving without complaint.

He thinks that if it was any other season. Before siesta, before he Evolved, before Mummy killed an ump and filled him with a constant, simmering envy, before ten people died despite peace and fucking prosperity. They would've cried. They would've gushed over every detail.

They did, in season 12. When the plans were first made public. They were all private smiles and daydreams. Giddy and optimistic.

What do they feel now? Why can't they name it?

Dunlap approaches the mound slowly, reluctantly. Like stepping into the white chalk circle will do something terrible.

She takes position. Everyone in the stadium will have their eyes drawn to her. The light and walls will guide their eyes, center of attention. She tilts her head back. Looks at the sky.

The stars are out tonight, shining brightly. The view is breathtaking. It feels less like a gift and more like a threat.

After all, isn't that what it is? The fans designed an ornate stage for all of them to burn atop of.

(Or, not him. Never Dunlap, no, never the Tigers. But who knows how long that lasts. Maybe they'll vote to tear away the blessings and start from scratch.)

Open air. The fans tore down the only pathetic measures shielding each player from the horrors up above. Were things getting too boring? Are they making up for the lost time of the siesta? Is the same fire that burns through Dunlap's veins smouldering in the audience, not caring who's hurt as long as the need for violence is sated?

Perhaps, she considers with a sickening twist of her stomach, they just want more money.

He clenches his hands into fists. He's not shaking, not breathing heavily, not gritting his teeth. He should be, He's furious, but. Disconnected. He is so, so angry, and still feels nothing at all.

He scuffs the spotless foul line as he leaves.

Chapter Text

Agan isn't a hero. Or, at least, they don't see themself as one.

They're well liked, sure. The co-captian to a mid-rate team who's a great listener. A little on the quiet side, but that's not unusual for a team full of artists. People like them, and like talking to them while they're drawing. It makes for good background noise, especially since most people don't mind being half listened to if they're told beforehand.

So against all odds, Agan makes a lot of friends. They start to feel comfortable around others in a way they hadn't had since their sister left for college. Goofing off during practice, making faces at the catcher from shortstop, sketching the vaguest pictures of their team possible while keeping them recognizable.

(And if they start up a rumor or two, well. Nobody could blame them. Everyone in the leauge has a story and they're all worth telling. And with how tense things are, how busy? It's nice to have something careless to think about.)

But they're not a hero. When the Immortals are killed (irony that they steadfastly do /not/ find funny), the possibility that the same could happen to Agan? To the artists? It keeps them up for days. Of course they miss the team, and the thought of seeing them again is comforting, but...Agan desperately doesn't want to die. They have a life here, outside of Blaseball, outside of their teammates. They love them, of course, Agan's with them nearly every day, but their world is larger than them. They don't want to lose it so soon.

Would they want any of their teammates to die for them? Of course not. But if they had the choice, between themself and someone else? Agan can't say what they would do.

Luckily, or unluckily, they don't get a choice.

There's a small pin that came in the bag with Agan's uniform. They assume it's a captain thing and put it on their lapel. They don't think about it again.

They're not thinking about it when the artists play their first eclipse game after becoming unstable. It's been...weird to play around. In one way or another, the team tries to capture it through art. It never works.

Nothing feels how it should, not even the stadium. Agan can't remember how many times they've turned the wrong corner in a hallway they could navigate in their sleep or ran into a table that they could've sworn was a few inches to the left. The vibrant colors decorating its walls are dulled and off-putting. It's especially noticeable on the dugout's mural, the previously beautiful cooperation peace looking weathered and poorly done. Agan can't help but focus on it, even though there are much, much bigger things to worry about.

The team is tense before the game. Agan...isn't worrying as much as he thought he would be. Last night they were a mess, sure, but on the field? Staring possible-death in the eye? They feel fine.

They tell their team what they know about the pitcher, in as few words as possible: They're consistent with their strikes but slow on steals. Getting on base will be their biggest offense challenge. Someone takes Agan's hand and squeezes it. They squeeze back without looking to see who it is.

The umps don't waste much time.

Slosh taps his bat on the base then settles back into position. The air is dry. The home ump places a hand on their mask, but doesn't remove it. Strike. Ball. The pitcher scuffs her toe in the sand, steps back to throw.

It all happens at once.

The ump straightens, fully, hand pulling up their mask. The catcher reaches to tug Slosh to the ground with them. The sky, washed out by the floodlights, flashes blue. Agan takes off running. They don't know why.

Everyone's shouting, fans and players alike. The ump's mask is gone. Agan doesn't understand what's under it. Their cleats pound into the sand, generously watered around the batter's box. It feels like drills.

Agan feels one crystalized moment of fear. They squeeze their eyes shut and keep running.

They don't reach the ump. It doesn't matter.

(In a later interview, the pitcher shakily recalls how Agan's green pin caught the light. It's the only thing she describes.)

Agan doesn't exist for...a long time. They won't realize this until later. There was no time to feel pass and no Agan to feel it.

Eventually, they startle awake, tension still held in their muscles. It's dark, and they blink their eyes rapidly to make sure they're open. It's cold, cold enough that they regret wearing nothing under their jersey.

Something tells them that they're very far away from the leauge.

Chapter Text

Tiana's a junior in college when it happens. Statistics with a journalism minor. She chose them on a whim, because that's how she does most things, and it's turned out great so far. She's pushed herself through with a beat-up planner and something that may or may not be sheer panic. She plays board games with her roommate and their friends on Wednesday nights. It's a good system.

Someone's hanging up flyers in the student center, and something about them catches her eye. Probably the red, all-caps text. The person hanging them up turns around to smile at her.

"Thinking about trying out?" she asks. Tiana blinks and returns the smile a moment too late.

"Uh-- maybe." she decides. "What exactly is Blaseball?"

The person laughs. "Yeah, totally." They pull a flyer from their bag (Tiana can just make out a huge stack of them inside) and hand it to her. "Definitely think about it! We almost have enough people for a full team."

"...sure." They leave with another bright smile. Tiana squints down at the flyer, shrugs, and tucks it into her folder.

--

She finds the folder again a few days later when she's looking for her Methodology homework. "TEMPLE UNIVERSITY INTRAMURAL BLASEBALL*** (***unofficial)," it reads. "NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY!!"

"Hm." The idea is somehow both inviting and uninviting at the same time. It's a sport, obviously, and she likes those. She played soccer through high school.

The flyer lists a few practices (she's already missed the first, she notes with a wince) and a final tryout date. And, in slightly smaller text, "Please try out. Please."

Well, guess that settles it. She tapes the poster up over her desk.

--

Everybody's been doing everything at practice, pretty much. Tiana likes running the bases the most, the motions familiar.

That is, until they play a scrimmage game on the last day. She volunteers to pitch first and something clicks.

The thing about pitching is that it should be simple. It looks simple enough, throw the ball fast enough and unexpectedly enough to keep the batter from hitting it. It gets so complicated so quickly, everything from her stance to the way she holds the ball to the wind to when it releases changes how the pitch ends up. Not to mention the variety of how players handle the same pitch. She loves it. She strikes out her first batter and bounces on her toes a little, giddy.

Next thing she knows, she's on the team. Practices three days a week, games all over the place. She circles the dates in red pen, sets handfuls of alarms on her phone, and looks at her stats on the bus to games. The flyer stays over her desk. She smiles every time she sees it.

--

Her roommate agrees to come to a playoff game. She knows as much about Blaseball as Tiana did: nothing. Tiana does her best to explain it, but the more she talks the worse it sounds. Her roommate listens dutifully, face completely blank.

"So it's like...a card game?"

Not at all, Tiana almost says, but something stops her. She pauses. "I guess it is."

--

They make it to the championships. Tiana forgets what team they're playing, only that they're from Pittsburgh and that their uniforms are a strange purple-grey and that their batters have a frankly terrifying combined OBP.

It's a great game. Tiana can't help but watch the other pitcher, the practiced certainty in every one of their movements. Every part of their body feels like an extension of the pitch, a seamless snap forward. She whispers excitedly to the others and almost loses her voice cheering for every run her team sneaks away with.

She gets so absorbed in the action of the game that she can't bring herself to be disappointed when they lose in the eleventh inning. Well. She's a little disappointed, sure, but she still wants to catch that other pitcher before she leaves.

She's busy trying to cram her glove into her almost-too-full bag when the dugout quiets suddenly. Tiana's eyebrows furrow. She turns around--

and is immediately met with someone in a collared shirt wielding a clipboard.

"Oh," she startles. "Sorry, I didn't--"

"Tiana Takahashi." the person tilts his head, not quite smiling. "Could I talk with you?"

Her eyes reflexively dart to the away game dugout. "Sure." He leads her outside, looking onto the field and the setting sun behind it.

The conversation's a blur. Something about an Internet League, whatever that means. Tiana has to hold back an excited laugh as he explains. She nods along, agrees to an interview request, and thanks him for his time. He rips off a piece of paper and hands it to her, face still blank-but-friendly. And then he's gone.

Tiana stares at the paper for a long time, careful not to wrinkle it. This is-- this is something. Something big, one of those things that change your life forever. The dream that she didn't know she had six months ago. Her eyes scan over the form again. Then, she freezes.

There's no date on the paper. If the man gave her one, she didn't hear it. She looks out to the field blankly in horror. "Shit."

Chapter Text

The descended look about the same. They don’t have hollow eyes or branching scars. They aren’t shrouded protectively in blue light. They don’t have bright golden eyes or stale smiles. They look, for the most part, carbon cut from their last championship.

Not that there wasn’t a transformation. There’s something electric at their fingertips. There’s something in their eyes. There’s something in the way they carry themselves. Cautious, sharp, radiant. Head tucked down to hide quick smiles, people who are used to losing. Unfiltered determination, people who never, never stop trying.

No matter how embarrassing they’re Up season records were, they played Up. That itself is a victory that nobody else can touch.

The Crabs flinch the way that they do everything: with spite. The Thieves haven’t accepted it by any means, but they work around it. The Crabs scrape against it, painfully. They almost-swing at every pitch like just this once, they’ll make it. It’s exhausting, sure, but it feels right.

The Tigers, though? They don’t have anything to worry about.

Their ascension isn’t anything important. Someone’s foot hits the base, the pitcher whirls around to face the dugout, grinning, and then they’re fading. The cheers and screams blend together, music nearly drowning it all out, Beams frozen on the field. Fading, fading, and then they’re gone. Like a setting sun.

The Hades Tigers only know one way to ascend, and its slowly. Carefully. Not one glance back.

Descending is much more their thing.

It’s like running down a staircase, or like falling down a waterfall, or like racing down a hill on a bike. It’s like seeing someone you thought you’d never see again on the other side of a crowded room. It’s loud. It’s big. There’s thunder at their heels. They’re holding hands, pulling each other along, grinning. Ignoring the chaos around them.

Chapter Text

“Getting out this week?” Cote asks, leaning against the door frame. Parker grimaces, presses his fingers into the floor. He's laying on his back, and doesn't bother looking over to them. (Doesn't want to give them the satisfaction.)

“Shut up, Loveless,” he mutters. Partly because he’s petty and knows that it bothers them, and partly because he can feel the restlessness building at his fingertips and needs something to distract himself from it. (It isn’t time yet).

They laugh, not entirely mocking. Nothing about Cote is kind, but... they have their moments.

Very brief moments. “I’m serious! I’m just as bored of this as you are, y’know.”

That does get Parker to turn. He glares at them with all the frustrated tiredness he can muster. They stick their tongue out at him. Unbelievable. “Don’t worry. Soon as I’m out, you’re the first one I’m torching.”

“Promise?”

Parker barely resists the urge to slam his hand into the ground. “Everything’s just so funny to you, huh.”

They grin back at his stare, unaffected. “Sure is.”

“Think you’ll keep it up when you’re unstable?”

Their eyes flash, and-- oh. They’re serious about this. “Again? Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

There’s a beat. Two assholes, much older than they should be, with identical golden eyes, daydreaming about the thing that ruined their lives. Parker reaches first.

“Y’know... I’m not stopping at the vault.”

“Yeah?”

“Me and M-- New Megan are getting out of here.”

They tilt their head. “Just you two?”

“Yeah.” The answer’s immediate. Instinctual.

Cote pauses, and just for a second looks actually bothered by that. They’re halfway through the doorway before Parker can say anything else.

“Good luck with that,” they call, closing the door behind them.

--

The last day of the week comes with more energy that usual.

Parker gets a pair of bruised fists and a scratched throat for his trouble.

--

Next week is bad. Parker can’t stop thinking about the Artists, and he cant find Agan anywhere. Not that he wants to, but-- he doesn't know anymore. He hasn’t slept in a while.

Neither has Megan, by the looks of her. He doesn’t ask, because they’re not like that, not like how they were, but its obvious something’s bothering her.

They argue a lot, and sometimes its good. Parker likes yelling, taking his anger out on someone else. Megan thinks hes an idiot, and doesn’t care about loud noises, and knows how to insult him enough to keep it up without sending him spiraling.

(She told him once, about how some days she resents him, wants him to fade away, alone and trapped. She thinks its a part of Megan from before. Parker tries not to think about it.)

(It's good for catharsis, though.)

This week isn't like that. They’ve been arguing, halfheartedly, a little more bitter than usual, when Megan cuts him off. “Just take the fucking glasses.”

Stunned, he holds his hand out. She tosses them, expression flat. He tries to remember if he said anything new, something that could’ve actually hurt her. He comes up empty.

Of course, the force field won’t unclasp from around his neck. Without another word, Megan snatches her glasses back and leaves.

And, because his day was already going so well, she brushes by Cote on her way out.

Parker doesn’t think he’s actually seen them look nervous before. They open their mouth, but by some miracle, think better of it and turn to leave instead.

...and he’s alone.

--

Sometimes, Parker misses having real friends.

But, he reasons, you can’t have fistfights with real friends. You can’t tell them you wish they were dead, and mean it, and have them laugh in response.

There’s reassurance in it, having the terms laid out. Knowing the exact time someone will stop caring about you. No strings attached.

(Real friends to get hurt. Real friends make you cry until you can’t breathe curled up on your bathroom floor for hours.)

(At least he can pretend not to care about his fake ones. At least he can’t hear them scream, can’t smell them burning.)

Yeah. This is better.

--

“Do you remember it?”

Parker sighs, runs a hand down his face. “Cote--”

“No, hey, it’s a real question.” They’re laying next to each other on the floor, because the couches are too stiff, and it pisses Lōot off when they do it. Cote turns their head towards him. If they’re lying, it doesn’t show on their face. “I’ve been wondering for a while, now.”

Parker thinks about his answer for what’s probably too long. “Of course I do.”

“Oh.”

He holds his breath for a second, but-- no, that’s all they say.

“...How about you?” he tries.

Cote snorts a laugh. “It's not exactly something you forget.”

--

Agan gets dragged along to one of Megan’s trades. Parker’s afraid they’ll try to stop them, but they just sit. And watch.

They’re in the hallway (because maybe the walls are thinner and they'll have a better shot), and Parker is closer to Agan than he’s been in decades. Agan doesn’t flinch, when Parker gets too close or moves too suddenly, but he does tense.

Megan asks Agan a quiet question, something about a badge, and then Agan’s glaring at both of them and storming off, hand held protectively to their chest, and-- oh. Oh.

“Worth a shot,” Megan sighs.

Parker doesn’t see them for a long time after that.

--

(He dreams about it.)

(Not that that's unusual for him. He watched the footage enough that his old teams show up pretty often. If he’s unlucky, he sees the Immortals.)

(It takes a long time for anyone vaulted to show up. But they do, eventually, and the dream feels is as bad as it always is.)

(He wakes up, and tells himself that this is different, because he doesn’t care about them, not like his old friends. It doesn’t make him feel better.)

Chapter Text

“Caramel-cinnamon iced coffee,” Winnie reads from the specials board. “Bet that’s good.” She doesn’t have gum, because, well, coffee, and is chewing on her hoodie string to compensate.

Drew wrinkles his nose at the drink, but doesn’t say anything. It seems rude to make fun of your dead friend’s taste.

He gets an Americano. She gets an Americano with caramel sauce, as a compromise. They take the good table, the one with the bench by the window.

“Oh– Sandie wanted us to grab more lightbulbs on the way back,” Winnie says. She’s popped the lid off of her cup to stir it.

“Sure, that’s fine.” Drew watches the crowd of people rushing by their window. He frowns a little. “Why do we need lightbulbs?”

“Remember when hers-–”

“–-burst, oh shit, yeah, I forgot about that.” They drink at the same time. Drew burns his tongue. “Did she ever figure out what happened?”

“No, but you know how the apartment is. Something’s up with the wiring.”

“Mm.” Some of their outlets had started acting up, and they already don’t have that many. It's been driving them all up the wall. Or– maybe it's just him. He doesn’t know.

They should probably call someone for that, actually.

"We should probably call someone for that," he tells Winnie.

She blinks at him innocently. "You mean you should."

He takes a long, bracing sip of coffee. "We should, because I don't have the number?" he tries.

"So I find the number, and you call them," Winnie answers, grinning. "Good plan."

Drew kicks at her foot under the table, but takes the loss.

The coffee shop is quiet around them. It's nice. Usually, this place gets pretty crowded in the afternoon.

Winnie taps out a rhythm on the table. “Did you know you were only 65 feet from me?” She doesn’t look at him.

Drew scratches at his arm. He doesn't like this jacket. “Yeah.”

“I’ve seen you run farther than that in less time. You could’ve done it.” She doesn’t sound accusatory. It’s the tone she uses when talking over pitches with Nandy.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Okay.”

(He thinks his arm is bleeding.)

Silence, again. For one, two, three moments. Then–

“Are you angry?” Drew asks, because he’s weak, because he’s tired.

Winnie shrugs with one shoulder, taking a sip of her drink. “Nah. it was only a matter of time.”

Drew wakes up.

Chapter Text

Two inhales sharply, unable to pull their eyes away from the needle under their skin. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel particularly nice, either.

Three sighs a little. “You’re fine.”

“I know,” they reply, voice a little flatter than it should be. (They've had some trouble with that, lately.)

Three doesn't react, just pulling the thread taut. Two watches the ragged edges of their skin come together seamlessly (or, along the seam that's supposed to be there, the one that can't be seen but can be felt, if you know where it is).

Like nothing even happened. Two shudders.

“Stop moving,” Three mutters.

“I’m not,” they reply petulantly.

“You’re shaking.”

And– yeah, maybe they are. Sue them. Their arm got torn up so bad that they had to hold it together to keep from spilling sand all over themself. And they only half succeeded, if the grit clinging to their uniform and Alston-Cerveza-playing-first’s horrified expression was anything to go by.

("Oops,” they’d said, still in sliding position, staring at the limb at their side. And–- look, they knew they were doing something wrong as soon as they started going down, but they barely ever hit the ball and they were so excited and maybe they tripped a little, if they were honest-–

Cerveza looked a little sick, so Two wasn't too bothered when he didn't help them up.)

They coughs a little to bring themself back to the conversation. “I"m nervous, okay? This isn’t… normal.”

Three hums, not looking up. They're good at this, Two realizes belatedly. Or, maybe it’s just easier to do for someone else than for yourself. They wouldn’t know. Three smiles, bitterly. “For a player, or for us?”

“I mean, either?” They pause, letting themself consider something they didn’t really want to. “What if I’m…”

Three’s smile dropped. “You know we weren’t made to last.”

A heavy pause. Of course two knows. They all do. They all heard about they Wyatts. They all notice the wear at their fingertips, the loose threads at their joints. Nobody talks about it. Meaningful glances across the field, or a pause during handshakes, are about as close as they get.

So, yeah, Two knows. But. Still.

“It’s early, isn’t it?” Barely two weeks. Surely they’re meant for longer than that. They have to be. It'd be waste of effort otherwise.

(They have to be.)

For the first time, Three hesitates, so quick that Two wouldn’t have noticed if they weren’t halfway through a stitch. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s early.”

They both fall into silence. Someone out in the dugout drops something, and Two has to bite back a flinch.

“Sorry about the Crabs,” they say, mostly to break the silence, but they mean it.

They aren't– bad people, the Crabs, but they’re blunt, and they’ve been hurt. From three’s stories, and the rumors floating around, there's less fear and more annoyance.

But Two’s not stupid. They know Chorby was on their team. They know that players find replicas unsettling in general. They know that their fall probably hasn’t helped matters.

Three scoffs. “Don’t worry about them. They’re not squeamish.”

“Still.”

“And they never liked us much anyway. They’ll get over it.”

“…okay,” Two relents.

They suddenly wish that Three got a different team. They have good people in Baltimore, they fit in well, but… it's not a kind place. And Three deserves a kind place.

Two got lucky with the Dale. The team tries very, very hard to be cool about… their whole deal. Some days it works, some days it’s painfully obvious it's an act. Still, it soothes the instinctual part of them that wants to be liked more than anything else.

(Chorby wasn’t like that, Two knows, the thought sitting at the very back of their head. Chorby didn’t care much how people felt about them. They had their friends, who they would go to hell and back for, and everyone else could mind their own business.)

(No, this desperation for approval was woven into them all along their seams. A replica exclusive. It gets grating, hard to think past sometimes. It’s at its worst when-–)

(Oh. Oh no.)

Two jolts a little, eyes snapping back to Three. "The fans—“

“The fans didn’t see anything. They were all watching the play at home,” Three answers immediately. They were probably thinking about the same thing.

Two really wants to believe them, because. well. One thing was made extremely clear. It doesn't matter one way or another if the players were scared of the replicas. They have to play either way. What matters, at the end of the day, is that the fans are happy. Two doesn’t know what would happen if they weren’t, but it cant be good.

So, Two nods and decides that it's… probably fine.

Three pulls the thread tight again, and the scrape is gone. They knot the thread twice and cut off the end using a small pair of scissors Two hadn’t noticed before. They hum a little, satisfied, and pull back to let Two examine their handiwork.

(Good as new, they think faintly.)