There Will Be No Song For Him

“Six days till event horizon,” Brock tells him. It’s barely a whisper, with his head pressed against the top of his, the man behind him, much like everyone else, is so, so tired.

Where up until now, they’ve managed some semblance of faux stability, the wake of the end of the world makes Burke’s head spin.

They have a game in Kan–Oxford, now, apparently. He still can barely stomach the change. Death upon death upon death upon death, the feeds and the ticker and the announcements play off in every stadium like a pained rattle.

The universe, every bit of their existence is feeling this world ending tug, and the closer they make it to the black hole, the more he thinks of the darkness, the more he wishes it would just envelop him already.

The day passes.

The feed rattles.

“The Seattle Garages have reached the Hall of Flame…the Seattle Garages appear to be…

The word is muffled by screams all across the field. The Garages are beloved, in some parts of the world, the band plays on often beyond the city of Seattle. Burke has never been able to stomach the noise.

Especially not now.

He’s falling. He feels the Earth fall from under him.

There’s pairs of arms, two to be exact, they are cold and comforting but they aren’t enough, they aren’t enough, they couldn’t be enough.

Burke’s vision is full of static and feathers and blinding liquid salt. He’s scrubbing at his face, his glasses crumbling to the concrete dugout floor. His heart is screaming in every sense of the word, he should be gone in his partners arms right now, but he is here, fighting the bile and the erratic beat in his chest.

There are people crying far beyond where the Wings are huddled, mourning this team so beloved by the ignorance of the fans.

Burke could care less about them, about their musicians and their players. The death toll being as long as it is, the name is meaningless to everyone in these stands.

There will be no song.

He just lost his son.

The next four days, they don’t expect him to play, there’s some naive thought that the end of the world means the contract is broken.

He plays anyway.

When they’re edging the horizon on day 79, Joshua and Brock are by his side. They have stayed by him through all of this. The static and the gold and the feathers have faded now, the one fucked up gift the universe could grant him before it all ends.

The play their last game.

His partners squeeze his hand.

The darkness takes.

The Highs and Lows of Niche Avian Research

Nickname relishes in the early siesta. It’s a time for em to take a moment, to return to eir office, file reports, and unpack the last…several months of active play.

E wont deny the enjoyment of having the hands on ability to work with the team, but between stiff muscles and broken blood feathers and every form of hellish stress known to man, the break gives em just the moment e needs.

E has a lot of papers in hand now, prone to just shoving notebooks and loose sheets in backpacks and suitcases is not exactly the most professional action but when you’re flying between Mexico City and dozens of other places across the world, you do what you can to get by.

Nickname elbows eir office door open, the warm light and cool architecture of the Bucket being a welcoming site.

“Hi Nicky.”

E hears her before e sees her.

Scarlet Caster is one of Nickname’s more ominous teammates, not in a malicious way, but truly knowing her was something e would never grasp. Yet here she was, clad in that familiar red leather and large brim hat, she was sitting on eir desk, careful to not disturb the mountains of documents sitting on the oak number.

“It’s nice to see you, Miss Caster.” Nickname sets the papers in eir hands down on the nearby lounge chair.

“It’s nice to see you too Nicky.” Despite the fact that eir interactions with Scarlet are sparse, she donned the name on em fairly fast. It had surprised a few people on the team at least.

Usually, e would bristle at the…Nickname, e avoided it when e could, but in a moment just like this, around the same time e joined the team, Scarlet met em in eir office, far more foreboding then, the red leather replaced with something dark.

She asked em questions, countless questions, it felt like an interrogation at first, from everything to eir intentions on the team, to eir research, to how e felt about blaseball as a whole.

The last question sticks out the most, though.

“Do you ever intend to hurt Cell Barajas?”

Nickname remembers almost being hurt by the question.

“Of course not,” the person back then would say. “I took a dedicated oath, Miss Caster, not just to this team, not just to my profession, but to myself. Harming anyone would not just be a professional failure, but a personal one. I would have never stepped on to the field if I believed I could cause harm, whether it was intentional or not.”

That response back then seemed to help, Scarlet’s shoulders had loosened, she had let out a breath.

“Good…good…it will be good to have someone like you around for—for Cell, and everyone else.” Nickname actually beamed at the warm regards from the woman then.

“Oh, one more thing,” with her hat tipped forward, e couldn’t see her face, but the smile in her voice was obvious.

“Can I call you Nicky?”

“So how’s it going?” Scarlet asks. The question shakes em out of eir thoughts. This is how most of her office visits go now, a check in, a conversation, then she vanishes like the means. E didn’t really mind it.

“It’s going as fine as it can go! My research is going well especially now that a lot of injuries are out of the way but you know I can’t talk about that with patient confidentiality and—“

Under her hat Scarlet is smiling.

“Nicky—Yamashita,” the use of eir last names makes Nickname pause. “How’s the game going?”

Oh.

Nickname chuckles, “It’s as good as it can be, I think. Uh, you lead the lineup and all, but I’m certainly not a good batter.”

“Join the club buddy, since day one the wings have been bad at offense.” The sarcasm is rich in Scarlet’s voice, it makes em laugh.

“I’m so thankful for our pitchers,” Nickname pauses for a moment, “Cell keeps offering to train with me, I might take up the offer.”

Scarlet nods, “That would be good practice, you know we-she’s made for that kinda stuff.” Her stumble goes unnoticed, but the pause after does not.

“Speaking of Cell,” Scarlet’s shoulders tighten a bit, the only bit of readability she offers. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“Please understand,” Nickname begins, “I cannot break doctor patient confidentiality-“

“I know that Nicky,” Scarlet cuts em off. “It’s not anything like that.”

“Oh,” E blinks in surprise. “Then go ahead.”

Scarlet sighs for a moment, she tips her hat lower, “Cell, when you work with her, when you work with all of them, do you view them all the same?”

The question is a surprise.

The answer is easy.

“Why would I?” Scarlet is clearly surprised by the response, but Nickname continues.

“Every time a Cell joins us on the field, that’s a new life, there’s an entire species of people, of course I’d expect everyone to be different. If I assumed everyone when they were born would be the exact same all the time, it would be ridiculous.”

And Nickname continues, “I mean, beyond physical differences, every single Cell gets to develop on their own, they don’t even have to be A Cell, that’s a major part of my work here, watching the development is wonderful Scarlet, watching each and everyone become their own person is beautiful.”

By the time e finishes, e can tell Scarlet is satisfied with eir answer. She stands up from the desk and nods at em.

“That’s…yeah is is really beautiful Nickname, I’m glad you feel that way.”

E smiles back at her, “You know, I appreciate you coming to visit Scarlet, you can always join me in my resea-“ a knock at the door cuts them off. “One second.”

There is no one at the door.

When Nickname shuts it and turns around, Scarlet is gone.
The papers e left on the bench are now stacked neatly on the desk.

Resting on top the pile, Nickname takes in the beautiful brown, white and orange pattern of a large harpy feather.

E sighs, thinking of eir previous visitor, and smiles.

Blaseball Mini Prompts: Washing Each Other’s Hair

Burke shoots up from the bed, the thin sheets sticking to his drenched skin as he shakes awake. His hand is over his throat, lingers of the static he was clearly spouting prior to waking up still stung hard.

Despite the sun setting hours ago the heat was still unbearable, and the rise and fall of his chest was making his head spin.

The knock at his door make’s Burke scramble for his glasses.

With a short cough, Burke responds, “Come in.”

The door open slowly, and Brock peaks his head in.

“I heard a–Burke are you alright?”

As Brock’s full body comes into view for Burke, he watches concern rise on his face.

Burke opens his mouth to speak, but falters instead.

Brock sits down at the end of the bed, his movements as careful as they always feel to Burke.

He reaches out his hand, and Brock takes it in his.

“You,” Brock begins, “Are incredibly sweaty.”

Burke laughs at that, he really does. His shoulders shake from the laughter and the sheets peel from his back.

“Yeah I am.”

“Do you want to take a shower?” Despite the clamminess of his palm, Brock squeezes his hand tight.

“Please?” Burke leans into the man in front him, and Brock stands up to support him.

Removing himself from the sheets, Burke falls into Brock’s arms, they move slow, creeping across the dark of the apartment. The cold of Brock’s scales ease the heat and ache.

By the time they make it to the bathroom, and Brock has the water turned at best, lukewarm, Brock is still leaning into him.

With his hand on the small of Burke’s back, he helps him into the shower. Accepting the fate of his clothes, he stepped in as well.

Burke lets his head fall under the water, Brock watches the white locks fall across his face.

It’s a moment of peace, the pulse of the water pressure, their soft breath.

Brock presses a kiss to Burke’s forehead, then grabs the conditioner.

Ocean Winds Feel Like Home

The shore is wrought with death and blood, the tides pull away the seeping life from these men, these soldiers. The roaring waves pulse and pull, pulling the humor from these men like the fleeting hope of their wives and husbands, knowing they will not return home.

Pedro Zebulon has gazed upon many shores, has known their grains of sand and their storms. He feels it against his form, the pulsing of the rain against stone, the wear along his forearms. To him, a shore was change, instability, the ever present fear that something, anything, could be pulled away in an instant.

Where he stood, along the bay, facing the Pacific sky, illuminated only by the reflection of distant moonlight and cityscape, Pedro dared to call this home.

How he arrived in San Francisco, he could not say.

He knew it true that this was a city of love, of passion and strife, yet in his place, resting between sand and rock, he was far too secluded from the joy of beach goers. Perhaps this respite would be one of isolation, he’d consider between musings.

He got used to this routine, spending time between the cold stone and the warm grains of sand, tending to the animals who kindly graced his presence, serving the purpose he believed to be right. The people here did not interact with him, like he was a piece of the scenery, to be gazed upon but never examined beyond a cursory glance.

This was the truth for years, until in an instant, that truth was pulled away.

Early morning light, the seagulls letting out their calls, Pedro laid his eyes on the most stunning man.

To say the man was put together would be an understatement. This man looked as if he was built to be on this Earth, an easy, welcoming face paired with a confident, structured body. This man, though Pedro had never met him before, filled him with comfort.

Pedro watched the man, his steps purposeful and paced, stepping along the shoreline, picking up glass, rocks and shells; his ivory hair remained unmoved by the wind. Pedro stared and stared, lost in this man, until without warning the man was staring back.

Admittedly, Pedro blinked first. He got lost in those eyes. Dark, cloudy, like cobblestone and ash, those eyes of his had seen things far beyond any mere human.

Much like his own.

The man dropped his treasures, eyes wide in astonishment. He took a step, then another, then another; the crystal necklace that sat against his sternum bounced wildly, reflecting the early morning sunlight like nothing he’d seen before. The man braked to a stop a few feet ahead, collected his bearings, then finally walked up close.

Pedro did not flinch, he did not retreat, but he stared in wonderment as the man’s hand moved, resting inches apart from his cheek.

“You,” said the man, “you have seen the worlds.”

Pedro nodded.

The man smiled, “What is your name, my dear soldier?”

Pedro swallowed, taking in the man’s oaky voice, before speaking out for the first time in nearly a century.

“Zebulon,” even at a whisper, a deep base rattled Pedro’s solid chest, “Pedro Zebulon.”

The man’s peaceful expression did not waver, “Bastion Cambridge.”

If Pedro could melt, right in that moment, he would. He had seen these feelings from a distance, the way someone’s body language changes, but never had he thought he’d feel a warmth greater than the sun before facing this man.

“I, I must tell you,” Pedro stuttered out, “I do not want to be a soldier.”

Finally, Bastion’s hand met his face, “Then what do you want, dear?”

Pedro let himself form into the touch, closing his eyes, “I think,” Pedro paused, “a gardener, a place I can tend to…”

When Pedro opened his eyes, Bastion had a hand on the crystal that sat against his chest, “Then may I give you that place?”

A split decision, the tide closing in, everything shifting in an instant.

“Yes.”

When the light finally dimmed, the San Francisco bay was far from Pedro’s sight.

Where he stood now was a centerpiece. Surrounded by great stone walls crawling with ivy, he stood in a garden.

Trellises of grape vines, flowers and crops alive, each and every inch of where was standing was alive. Walking slowly, Pedro took in the sights, the building that surrounded him was dark, undoubtedly it had seen much and out of its walls; the seclusion was intentional and being allowed here was just as much of an intentional decision.

Pedro stopped, resting for a moment at a sprawling willow at the furthest reaches of the garden.

He thought of Bastion, the intense emotion the man had provoked in him.

Perhaps—

Yes.

This place could be home.

Early Morning Melody

Burke had concluded that today would be a day to lay in bed as he woke up with the sun. Warm light cracking through his blinds, instead of the regular urge to vacate the duvet, he took it as a chance to rest.

As far as he knew, the world would not miss him if he didn’t leave the sheets. No one was expecting him for anything in particular, and furthermore, Brock had told them at dinner that he would be out on expedition for the next few days.

As Burke relished in the silence, he let his eyes fall shut for another time, taking in a deep breath of the cotton around him.

The moment he hears the scratch of a record, his eyes snap open.

Even from the other room. The hum of the vinyl permeates through the wall. Burke closes his eyes again, for only a moment, before the smooth sound of a saxophone, and the soft accompaniment of a piano fills his ears.

He recognizes the record in an instant, even if it had never been played from the moment it entered his home.

Until now of course.

Burke slides out and shimmies off the covers. The cold air hits his bare chest as he cringes for only a second at the new sensation. He doesn’t bother with grabbing a shirt or slippers as he moves towards the door.

Opening it just a crack, Burke peaks into the living room.

The specter he sees is a welcomed one.

Joshua Watson, translucent just to the point of visibility, swaying gently in front of the record player to the music he, evidently, put on.

Burke opens his door a little more, & the old hinge makes a squeak. In an instant Josh stops swaying. He doesn’t move to stop the music, but instead turns to face the door.

“Burke?” Josh’s voice is barely louder than the music, a gentle bass among the melody. “Did I wake you up?”

Burke shakes his head. Opening the door further, he steps out into the living room to assure him. “I was already awake, just didn’t want to get out of bed until now…”

Josh smiles at him as the translucency of his form becomes more and more opaque.

“Well, it’s nice to see you out and about,” Josh says.

He hasn’t begun to sway to the music again, the record is in transition, the mere few seconds between songs. They’re standing in the silence, looking toward one another, before Josh opens his mouth to speak again.

“I realized—“ Burke turned his head, nodding at Josh to continue, “I realized that for as long as I’ve been here, we—you’ve never turned the record player on. I just thought I’d listen to something.”

This. This was true. When Burke first moved into the apartment, after stumbling into this world, after legal set him up with everything he’d need. The first thing he sought was a sense of normalcy. He sought out the things he knew, even if he was missing one of the most vital pieces.

His wife’s record collection was fresh on his brain back then. The records she’d play during dinner, the ones she’d throw on while cleaning the house, the quiet jazz records she’d listen to while painting, the sensual, beautiful music she would play to welcome him home from work—

It was hard. Realizing the degree in which he had lost his family the moment he stepped into this world. So the records served less as something he enjoyed, but as a reminder. Letting them collect dust wasn’t his intention, but well, here he was, listening to songs he remembers like yesterday for the first time in 45 years.

Burke smiles back at Josh, “I haven’t listened to this in a long time…”

Josh raises his eyebrows, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. My—“ the static itch in his throat catches Burke by surprise, his hand jumps to his throat as he swallows down the pain. Josh’s face is covered in concern; Josh has seen this many times before. Burke collects himself before continuing, “it’s an old favorite.”

Josh’s face goes soft. Walking towards Burke, he pulls him into a silent embrace.

Burke welcomes it wholeheartedly.

The two hold there, for a moment, & Burke relishes in it. While the thought of his wife is still simmering in his brain, he takes in Joshua fully, comforted by the man who has been in his company for so, so long.

The words that come out of Burke’s mouth at this moment are not impulsive. These words are tender, filled with the kind of love that Josh recognizes instantly.

“Dance with me?”

Joshua’s hands shift, moving in the space between Burke’s waistband and hips. Burke’s hands drift around Josh’s neck and shoulders. Josh let’s the distance fully close between them, resting his head on Burke’s shoulder.

At last, with the last slow track spinning into the air around them:

They dance.

Blaseball Mini Prompts: Fixing Each Other’s Clothes

It’s 3:45 a.m. when Knight feels Sigmund give them a stir.

Far left castle door. Baby.

The urgency in these echos is clear. Despite being on the opposite end of the castle, Knight books it. The clanging sound of his armor seems dampened, a barrier of soundproofing following them so as to not stir the other occupants.

Ruthless is standing at the doorway, xer back to Knight. Her shoulders are tense, his bag is slung on xer shoulder.

A lighter rests in her palm.

The only noise between them is shallow breaths, and hiss of gas and flame and Ruthless flicks the lighter on and off.

“Ruthless,” Knight’s whisper breaks the silence.

When Ruthless turns around, her brow is furrowed, his face is red. The feathers and hair that dance around the edges of xer face are a mess.

There are tears in Ruthless’ eyes.

Not very many people know why the Triumphants stopped talking. When Baby arrived in Chicago she was a burning flame, and people could only assume it was something horrible that severed the godslayer and their sibling apart.

This was not the case.

Though the only people who can recall the conversation are the siblings, and the castle which gave them a loving home, the words do not matter.

Their last interaction, for many, many decades, would be this conversation.

By the end, Ruthless would wipe the tears off on her jacket sleeve.

Knight would rest a metal hand on their siblings face one last time.

Ruthless’s jacket would be zipped up, and smoothed out by her sibling just like they did when xe was a kid.

Knight would say goodbye, tell xem they loved her.

And Ruthless would turn away.

Blaseball Mini Prompts: Calling Each Other Names

The pads of Rush’s fingers linger against Jode’s bare collarbone. Practice was done.

The showers were empty now, the lingering steam sticks to their skin.
“You were great today Lady.” Rush’s voice was…quieter than Jode was used to, but the moment was nice, she couldn’t complain.

“It was just practice, Rush.” She leans back into him, she recognizes the ware and tear cotton shirt. It’s hers.

“That’s my shirt, fucker.” Jode turns around, letting her arms snake around Rush’s waist.

“Listen, I think I just pull it off better.” Rush is smirking up at her now.

Jode rolls her eyes, “Oh yeah, wanna steal anything else from my closet next time?”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” Rush’s hands move up and down Jode’s back. “But, Lady, I could imagine a few pieces of clothes on the f–”

Before Rush can finish his sentence, Jode is whipping the shirt off from the hem. Rush’s arms are thrown back in confusion, and Jode takes off running.

Rush stands their dumbfounded and shirtless, before yelling after her with a wild grin, “You bitch!”

Blaseball Mini Prompts: A Photo in their Element

Photographers itch for the opportunity, journalists only hope to write the headline. Newspapers and television alike, they all clamor for a photo of Don Mitchell as the scene of a crime.

They call it his natural element, where the criminal is most himself, in the heat of a heist, under the rush of a chase, to say journalists have tried to capture the infamous bastard, was an understatement.

It was Sandford who took joy in clipping the attempts. It was one thing to follow his husband around, trial after trial, getting him out of any consequences just when he tries one last heist. But in a way, the newspaper clippings and photos kept as memories. The bank heist in New York was their first date. The art gala in L.A. was a getaway.

The list goes on and on, maybe Sandford was a hypocrite, that he knew. He enjoyed the rush of crime just as much as Don did, and defending the man heart and soul, again and again, was as exhilarating as any time the two got away for a weekend.

None of the headlines are accurate though, not in the slightest.

No journalist will ever lay their eyes on Don truly in his element.

In the back of Sandford’s pocket, always with him, always there, is a small photo printed off from Milo’s cheap Polaroid. They were drunk, they were dumb, partying after a post season they didn’t want to forget.

Sandy is forever grateful for Milo’s keen eye.

Don’s old hat rests on Sandy’s head, the man’s hand rests on Sandford’s face.

This is Don Mitchell in his element.

Absolutely in Love.