Category Archives: Fan Fiction

WIP Amnesty

Author’s Note: Hey! This piece of fic was written for the Blaseball Zine Jam 2022, and was for the collab zine Foreward [To Finish Later]. Please consider checking out the zine and the whole collection!
This piece was inspired by a personal experience! I have always lived close to trains, and the Amtrak Southwest Chief route from Los Angeles to Chicago has always deeply fascinated me. I think the use of slower travel across the U.S. as symbolism for both Baby severing ties from xer life in San Francisco, and as a metaphor pulling them towards the call and the life that being a firefighter demands is so interesting to me.
This piece was originally gonna be a solo zine, however my friends talked some sense into me! I hope to return to this eventually.

‘Train Tickets?’

That’s one voice xe will miss.

Sigmund’s voice in hir ear is soft, all things considered. They knew xe was going to do this for some time. The ache in hir bones, the burn of the sun, staring at the band of lovers that have come to center around hir siblings, the overwhelming rise of the LARP, the fight xe had with–

Knight.

It boils down to Knight.

Their fighting has only gotten worse with the talk of the game they fell in love with on a bout of some quest. Neither of them dared to comment on their relation to time, and how they were brought here; but where Baby wanted to settle, Knight created ripples and waves in their wake, between falling within the mess Theo began, or upsetting time to kill a god, or the cult of personality they formed around their love and their honor.

It felt suffocating.

The more xe stayed, the more hir beliefs took to Knight’s like oil to water. Xe couldn’t be like them. Xe couldn’t be in their shadow anymore.

Xe couldn’t keep living with clipped wings.

It’s why she’s here. It’s why xe is trying to get through Sigmund’s halls as quiet as xe can.

From Parker, xe heard that the Amtrak was just a few hours away in L.A., and if xe really wanted, xe could ride it to the end of the line.

‘You know I hate driving.’

Xe can feel Sigmund’s sigh of resign. In all reality, she knew that Sigmund would support xim. They talked about hir room, about how it would stay, if xe needed it.

She was hoping ey wouldn’t need it.

The train ticket purchase wasn’t difficult.

The line read LAX to CHI.

Chicago Union Station.

Something tugs at hir chest.

Of course, Sigmund told them.

Their conversation wasn’t long.

They straightened xer coat before she left.

Even in California, the early morning November air stings against the tear stains.

At least if they know, it will maybe make the split easier.

Somewhere, the threads that hold them together are stretched thin.

They do not break.

She’s glad ey called in this favor.

Don’s sitting in his black low rider, the tail pipe sputtering gray among the darkness. Don was usually up this hour, up to something, and had a double excuse as his ‘legal advisor’ was at a conference in L.A.

By the time hir bags are in the trunk, Don is tapping out the last of his cigarette. He tosses the spent butt in the dashboard ashtray, and he turns to xim.

“You ready to go?”

Xe nods, “Let’s go.

It’s around 2:55 when xem and Don finally stop talking, and the car is quiet.

The drive to LA isn’t a bad one, the late night air flowing through the open windows against their skin calms the flush on xer face.

She knows he won’t miss the empty sky, or the constant artificial lights. Xe’s never seen…most of the country before, frankly. Xe has read the stops and the breaks. Hopefully wherever she stops will be fresher than this.

Only after xe swallows the anxiety in their throat, does Ruthless realize how thirsty they are.

“Hey, Don?” their voice cracks, but Don hums in acknowledgement.

“Do you mind if we stop somewhere quick, I need to get something to drink.”

Don nods, “Sure thing kid, I could use something myself.”

The nearest exit is about a mile drive, and sooner than Ruthless can really process it, Don is parking in front of a 7/11.

Wandering the isles gives hir a headache. Between the florescent and the bright packaging of everything in sight, he goes for the largest bottle of water and the least disgusting energy drink she can find.

Don is still meandering around, which gives her more time to look.

A lot of the conveniences are things xe already packed, or snacks that would make hir sick, but one section does catch hir eye.

Usually, she would ignore the section of what Helga explained was ‘school supplies and stationary,’ but a particular object stood out.

It was plain and brown, no bigger than the palm of xer hand. Embossed in leather, the book read ‘Travel Diary.’

Xe remembers, a long time before San Francisco, Knight would write about their travels, sit their with parchment bound by leather, reading off stories and quests when xe was young. Xe would sometimes sit, when Knight was gone, reading off old books and notes that they took, tracing the letters with their fingers, wondering what traveling like his sibling would be like.

A voice breaks them from the thought.

“You ready to go bud?” Don’s head peeks from the opposite isle, and Ruthless nods.

“Yeah one sec.”

Without a second thought, Ruthless grabs the diary, along with a pack of pens, before joining Don at the register.

Savor What’s Yours

Author’s Note: Hey! This piece of fic was written for the Blaseball Zine Jam 2022, and was for the collab zine To The Hall and Back: A Zine About Marriage, Divorce and Everything In Between. Please consider checking out the zine and the whole collection!

They stare down the television. The tiny CRT sits on top of boxes and milk crates in the equipment shed. Usually, things wouldn’t be…this tense. The fear of the idol board isn’t unknown amongst the players in Hawai’i, but they’ve felt nothing like Don’s instant rise to stardom.

The boss’ announcement comes, MVPs are awarded, and the man in question groans in ache.

Ego sits well on his skin when the modification takes. It’s Yosh’s eyes who meets Don’s now amber tinged first. This wasn’t new to the Fridays, but back in San Francisco, ego was the far from their concerns. Don was talented, Don was good. A part of him wished that Don Mitchell would put his energy into anything other than a love for the things and people he cared about.

This, Yosh knew, was out of the question.

He gets it.

Yosh gets it.

He’d be hypocritical. All things considered, the ache in his bones from several seasons back makes that no clearer. They both did what they did for love, it’s how they both got here in the first place.

The discussion from the team and the word from management is “wait it out, see where the vibes take us, we can try to prevent you from getting vaulted if we can.”

Being an optimist has never been Yosh’s forte.

Yosh comes to him with the idea.

“I’ll learn to bat, it will be fine, if you’re not on base, that will get the statisticians off of your back.”

Out of his entire blaseball career, Don has pitched a ball a total of maybe twenty times. Most of which, were homoerotic flirting attempts with his husband, or inebriated bets that varied wildly in result. He’s used to the run, he’s used to the fast-paced nature of the lineup.

He knows the sting of Ego. He knows his husband’s fear embedded in FaceTime calls and texts between timezones and air travel.

He says yes.

Yosh is a smart, smart man. It’s something Don has always admired, but even then, calling up his husband for the weekend so both of them could teach him to pitch as a bit…much.

He tugs at his collar, the height of the mound has him looking bouncing between the Sandford’s eyes as his catcher and Yosh’s eyes as the batter. Percival is serving as their ump, Roland is in the outfield, this is for him. He knows this whether feedback demanded it or not they are here for him.

Don can’t tell if that makes the shining weight in his stomach and lungs feel lighter or heavier,

He pitches the ball.

“Strike Three!”

Percy is grinning under her mask. He watches Sandy squeeze the ball in his mitt. Yosh’s grip on the bat loosens, and he signs.

“You’re a natural.”

Don steps off the mound, and runs his free hand through his hair, cringing at the stick the pine tar has against it.

“Well I had good people to learn from.”

Sandy takes off his mask, rolling his eyes, “You sap.”

Percy hollers for Roland to come in from the outfield, and goes off to the dugout to clean up, “You three got it here?”

Yosh nods, “Yeah, yeah, we got it.”

Laying in bed now, Don feels an ache in his shoulder, and he groans, “How the hell do you two do it.”

Sandy laughs, “Honest answer? It’s all in the elbows.”

Yosh chuckles into the pillow, and Don lightly hits him on the chest.

“Okay haha you shitheads.” Don is grinning too, despite everything, and he lets out a sigh.

“Are you two gonna be okay?” Don doesn’t finish his question right away, and the air hangs still.

“Like, if I really still get vaulted, are you two going to be alright?”

It’s more than the ego that makes his chest feel tight.

“Don-” Yosh starts. “This isn’t the first time the thought of losing someone has been at the forefront of my mind.”

Right. Fuck. Right.

“And because of that, I know that, whether you are vaulted, I will still have my love for you.”

Both him and Sandy are staring at Yosh now.

“I know I can’t speak for you Sandford, but, when Sebastian and I-” Yosh chokes on his words, and he takes a breath, “When we got married, we knew that with everything we had going on in our lives, that letting ourselves fall into grief would only hurt us. I miss him, I miss him every day.”

He pauses.

Yosh lets himself set his hand against Don’s bare chest, and Sandford joins him.

“He told me while we were living back in Trinidad, that if something were to happen, he wanted me to keep going, to keep trying, to keep loving, to not let myself break the cycle of filling the world with some tangible part of me, and of him.”

“Don, whatever we can do to keep you out of that vault we will do. But even if the worse comes to worst, we will keep going, for me, for you-” Yosh squeezes Sandford’s hand, “For us.”

Sandy rests his head on his shoulder, “You’ve always had a way with words, Carpenter.”

Yosh chuckles, “I try.”

They don’t talk about it anymore, at least for now. Sandford is quiet drawing his finger up and down Don’s chest hair, focusing on the slow pulse of the ceiling fan.

Don moves his arms, ignoring the strain in his shoulder. He wraps his arms around the pair, and pulls them close.

“Hey, we have the night to ourselves, why don’t we just enjoy it instead?”

“If by ‘enjoy it’ do you mean fall asleep in ten minutes?” Sandford smiles against his neck,

“Shut the hell up you old man.” Don kisses the top of his head, then turns to offer Yosh the same

Bleed

Theo has always hated blood.

The first time he busted his knuckles, getting in a fight with some snot nosed kid who called him a slur on the playground, he held his fist and sobbed. Roland would patch him up back then.

He’s bled a lot more since then. Bloody noses, cuts and scrapes, the graze of a sword getting a little too close to his side. Every time, it turns his stomach, it makes him sick.

He hates blood.

When the decree hits, when the metallic smell hits his nose, he vomits.

Theo has always appreciated his spot in the outfield. Right side, quiet and unbothered, he could dissociate among the sheets of red as the game goes on.

It is day 31.

The game is going, frankly, a grind. Tied for innings and innings, just waiting for someone to hit a homer and end the whole affair.

It’s the bottom of the 8th.

Knight has always stood center field, it’s a point of command and leadership, Theo relied on that often.

Combs, he thinks? That’s who’s up to bat.

The Ump calls a strike.

Theo glances away.

The gurgling starts.

The smell of blood is suddenly stronger, overwhelming, drowning. The droplets fall away from him and the rest of the team, the form around Combs at the plate and stream out away from him. The deep read clouds from around his lover, his captain, Knight. Blood flows around and into their suit, destined to go there by the gods and their assignment as a siphon.

The rain turns back to normal. Yosh is standing on the mound in horror.

Combs hits a double.

They win, in the end, but Theo barely recalls it.

They played into the 12th.

They were drenched.

Yosh is the one to storm off the mound first, going straight for Knight.

“What was that.”

Knight’s echoing voice explains it away “I couldn’t control it.”

Yosh stares at his own reflection in the shining, ruby tinged steel. “Okay.” They go to clean up, Theo pulls away to breathe.

He believes Knight.

Nine days.

It takes nine days.

They’re in the infinite LA and blood is drip drip dripping from his metal glakneesframes. His dreads are already tinted a deep maroon.

Fig crumbles at the plate. Out.

Val Games, that Val Games, gasps violently. Out

Then Fig screams. OUT

Percy is screaming too. The outs don’t feel good. The inning shifts are tense. Three times, three times he watched Knight fill with blood and stand firm in the wake of the pain of their opponents.

They win.

Theo helps Percy off the mound.

They do not speak to Knight.

It happens again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The Shelled One is angry. The world is rumbling. The blood keeps pumping and draining and looking Knight in the helm is becoming harder and harder and harder.

It’s nearly the end of the season now.

Day 97.

Bloodrain.

Even his disgust is getting tired, his original horror feels dulled in the wake of everything.

Pedro goes down in a gurgling gasp, and Sandy walks him in an instant.

Knight stands firm.

Kennedy, poor fucking Kennedy, he gets drained and falls to his knees, with Luis and Parker having to help him to his feet.

Knight is shining under the blood.

Sutton glows when it hits her, she laughs with blood dripping from her lip as she slams a ball right past him.

Knight radiates.

They win. It’s a shutout.

It’s between himself and Sandford who get to Knight first. But Theo moves quicker than he has in ten fucking seasons and makes it first.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Triumphant!”

He bangs on Knight’s chest plate and blood splatters across his face and glasses.

Knight doesn’t even try to defend themselves.

Knight’s face is shifting, they certainly aren’t upset, in fact, they look proud.

“This is helping us, isn’t it? We won. We’re in the playoffs.”

Theo stares at them.

They keep staring.

Theo hits them again, right against the helm, suddenly he feels his knuckles sting in a familiar ache. Knight does not flinch. Theo is certain his blood is mixing with Knight’s and everyone else’s

There’s something unspoken here.

The fact that it’s not about winning, the fact that Knight didn’t care what they did to other people, the fact that Knight didn’t care about what they were doing to them, all of them.

Those issues went unsaid.

They lose in the semifinals against the same team Knight sucked the life out of.

Theo catches himself whispering to Percy in bed, asking if maybe they did that in spite of them, in spite of Knight.

The finals happen.

They are nearly torn apart.

Theo never gets a chance to ask.

Dinner Night

The smell of spices hits Adalberto’s nose when they get to the door.

The apartment lights, sans the kitchen, are turned down low. Some sort of music fills the air between the smell of garlic.

She said he was just going to pick up wine, cheese and bread, just like his husband asked, but got sidetracked by a few extra treats along the way. The corner market by their apartment was always too tempting, and Brock would definitely tease him for it later.

He watches Brock sway to the quiet music, he looks focused, relaxed, and the sight makes Bertie feel warm.

He sets the grocery bag on the counter, which gets Brock’s attention enough to smile at him, before going back to swaying.

Bertie lets himself slink behind him, pressing himself against Brock’s back, moving with his sway. Bertie’s long arms wrap around Brock’s waist, Brock leans his head back slightly, enough to press against Bertie’s chest.

This is how they stay, the lingering jazz, the warm smell of tomato & rosemary.

Then Bertie leans in, bending down, they kiss the man, letting their lips linger on the top of his head, then he hears Brock chuckle.

“Isn’t bending down like that gonna hurt your back?”

Bertie rests their chin on his head, “That ship sailed a long time ago dear.”

Brock sighs, “It’s only a little unfair that you’re so much taller than me”

Bertie grins, “It’s either this or we get you a step stool.”

With his unoccupied hand, Brock lightly hits him. He sets the spoon down, then turns to face Bertie.

“I can reach you just fine thank you.” Suddenly Brock raises up, balancing on his tiptoes, to place a kiss on the bottom of Bertie’s lips.

Bertie meets him, of course he does, he holds his husband close. He takes in his cold skin, running his hand against the rough texture of his face. He keeps an arm around him, just to make sure the steady balance doesn’t shift.

Then he feels Brock jump, he falls off his tiptoes.

“The sauce!”

Brock turns around to what is clearly a now steaming and bubbling concoction. Bertie chuckles and presses another kiss to his head.

“Keep your eyes on the prize love.”

Brock grumbles with no malice behind it, “Well someone decided to distract me!”

“Do you want cheese bread or not?” Bertie retorts.

Brock grins at him, “the oven is already preheating, I didn’t forget.”

Bertie smiles back, then goes to get the groceries they brought home.

The warm silence fills the room again, with the promise of dinner getting closer.

Without warning, Brock asks, “What snacks did you buy?”

“Dammit.”

Live Ash

Since joining the team, Kennedy hasn’t been a stranger to fire. He hadn’t been a stranger before of course, he’s worked with blow torches and forgers in his lab, but the sensation of a burning building is unlike anything else.

When he joined the team, after Axel understandably went home, the decision to pair himself and José on the same shifts made sense.

“It’s a comfort thing, trusting your crewmates is a big part of the job, and you two know each other.”

This was very true.

He trusted José deeply. Knowing that it was him he’d be with when the transfer to Chicago hit, being a battery and having that connection made the transition feel more…homey?

Almost.

Still.

The first time they went on a call with Joshua and Declan, the heat and the embers and the determination in José’s eyes was something else. It was, frankly, a horrific first call, and as evacuations continued, he almost lost track of him.

As Josh recounted the people living in the building and aid was being administered, Kennedy heard a scream.

Then boots hitting the pavement.

Then Declan yelled after his partner.

The building wasn’t safe. Joshua didn’t let him go in after him regardless of immortality or his metal components.

It was a tense three minutes.

José would come out with a boy in his arms. His eyes would lock with Declan, and like that, they were back to it, helping the injured, putting out the fire, following the call.

From everything about that night, his processors still cycle the sound of José’s cough, and the way he hid it in his sleeve.

Josh would reprimand him after, and he would apologize to the three of them after the fact.

They spent a lot of their time before the season in the basement of the firehouse.

Justice and Baby had told him there was some industrial space for him to work on himself and other mechanical projects, and after Thomas offered up a bean bag, José would camp out while he worked. Oftentimes, he would just read, sometimes, he’d be writing in a small notebook. It was a quiet company between the bending and shaping of metal.

José wasn’t always this quiet though.

He couldn’t really place when, but it always felt like he was trying to prove himself to the team…to everyone. He didn’t need to do that, none of them needed to prove anything, they had just won a championship!

Though, all things considered, he hadn’t really processed that himself.

None of them were strangers to fire after that.

The way Burke had held Axel back sticks in his mind.

Today José brought a project, some herbs to crush, a small molcajete and several clippings from his now downsized collection. José’s interest in plants fascinated him, while he never reaped the benefits of the various plants José would give to his teammates, getting the man to talk botany was always fascinating.

When he asked him what he was grinding, José first gave him a smirk.

“Really?” Kennedy laughed, but José shook his head.

“No, it’s not that, I’m grinding some chamomile, Silvia asked for it to help her sleep.”

Kennedy smiles softly, Silvia has kept in good contact with them both over the break, “That’s really nice.”

José hums in agreement, grinding out the dried flowers into a bowl.

“Say,” Kennedy begins, “How does it help you sleep again?”

The season starts like any other, they play the game like they’re supposed to. Jaylen isn’t like that anymore, and Chicago is far enough from Seattle that they don’t play much anyhow.

Still, the edge is still there. The fear of an ump’s eyes glowing white.

He was not on the field when Miguel Wheeler died, but José was. They called it a posthumous single in the reports, and it brought José home.

Despite the chaos, the screaming and crying and management sending Case out on the field, the thing that stuck with Kennedy the most was the hollow terror in José’s eyes. He was the only one of them on the field then.

He was just too far away.

Kennedy would often find himself at games he didn’t pitch, he didn’t need recovery like the others, he could watch, he could learn, he could hope to improve.

Caleb was a good pitcher and so was Garner on the Lovers, so he sat back, he took notes, and he watched, doing his best to ignore the looming dark sky.

It was the top of three and Caleb made quick work of Horne. Ortiz walked up to bat, her usual pomp and determination.

The rest came quick.

José was running, running, running, kicking up dirt along the first base line. The snakes slithering around Ortiz’s scalp jutted back. Caleb was yelling, Josh was yelling, from the opposing dugout Triumphant was running out too.

José burns.

It’s a cloud of glowing flame and ash, Ike and Ortiz are scrambling back as the umpire is unphased.

The smoke clears and everything is tinged a radiant orange, not like fire, not like embers, unlike anything he’s ever seen before.

He stares at the grass and the dirt and the bodies covered in what remains among the ashes.

The game continues.

They lose.

It’s Wesley, who finds him hours after the game ends, sitting at home plate.

The ashes were cleaned up, Josh was the one to call Burke, and he had declined the phone.

The orange though– “What is it?”

Kennedy stared down at the earth.

“Pyrophilous spores, a type of fungi which spreads after a fire.”

Wesley doesn’t respond.

Kennedy talks anyways.

“It was the blessing, that’s when things changed. I didn’t know–”

His gears creak, he’s registering a heat malfunction.

“You can’t blame yourself Ken,” Wesley sighs, “none of us knew he would do that.”

Kennedy doesn’t feel so sure.

Still though, he looks at the spores, he remembers a late night discussion, talking about the living network of mycelium that made up mushroom growth.

He remembers what it takes for those networks to be alive.

He remembers the determination in José’s eyes.

Eventually, he and Wesley go inside.

Some spores cling to his body, the brilliant orange lingers.

Even now, he doesn’t feel alone.

Remember Him

They stay in a group.

This has been the case since they landed here. Of course, staying with the team is common, but almost everyone is in reach at a moment’s notice.

And that’s where he finds himself now. Duffy–it’s Duffy sitting next to him, his back to the ever burning massive campfire that has sustained all of them. They stare at the starless sky, and Peanut Bong finds himself staring too.

It feels weird. Being this close, he hasn’t seen him since shit–season 10? Not since the falling, not since the shadowing, not since the–

Fuck.

“Did you feel it?” He breaks the silence, Duffy’s eyes meet theirs and it almost stings.

“Feel–” Duffy pauses, closing their eyes.

“No one else knew, they didn’t remember him by the time he went.”

That wasn’t the answer he wanted.

“It hurt. It fucking stung.”

“Ruthless didn’t understand why I crumbled to my knees.”

Bong balls his fists and starts to shake.

“I don’t fucking get it!”

Duffy starts tries to talk but the fire in Bong’s eyes makes it clear to stop.

“Why did you two get to stay together?”

“I don’t know D-” Duffy’s voice cracks, a familiar swell and itch starts to scrape at his vocal cords.

Bong deflates, “I know you don’t know D.”

“Do you miss him?” Duffy asks.

“I don’t know…it feels like losing a limb. It felt different than Quitter. Aly hurt too, but fuck man.”

Duffy nods.

“He didn’t want to put down roots, like I did.”

Bong turns to him, “Yeah?”

Duffy shakes his head, “They wanted to recover, to put it to rest. They found a lot of joy in Chicago…”

Bong laughs,”and then he went to Philly.”

Duffy sighs, “And then he went to Philly.”

The two stare off into the endless distance, the fire behind them feels almost closer.

Bong leans into him, Duffy relaxes into his warmth.

“Fuck you for leaving me, both of you.”

“I missed you too.”

“I’m glad you remember him.”

“I’m glad you remember him too.”

Bong raises an imaginary glass, “To Holloway “

“To Holloway”

Black Hole Home

It has been seven days, twenty two hours, and forty minutes since Brock left the apartment. Missions as a seeker take time, Josh knows this, and he knows he has to stay behind.

Him and Burke keep up the house. There’s no point in streaming anymore, not here, not now, but the two of them occupy themselves with any number of things. Lately, Josh has been reading, laying on the couch with a stack he stole from one of Burke’s many, many bookshelves.

If he’s being honest, the sheer amount of romance novels among the physics books and research articles is more of a surprise than he thought. Burke is doing his usual, pacing, researching, reading and writing down his recent examinations of the situation they’re in and the last bits of information Jasper and Haruta had brought back to him weeks ago now.

The house was quiet, this is honestly what they both preferred. When it was just them…well, the two of them, Sosa, and Axel, the house would be left in a similar state like this, the absences of them felt oddly heavy in Josh’s chest.

He knows that Sosa is safe, they heard from Stout that Houston made it to the desert safely.

He knows why Brock stays out so long.

Josh puts the book down against his chest and closes his eyes. While they were expecting impending doom through all of this, it’s the waiting, the nothingness, that exhausts him the most.

The spiral Josh is falling down breaks with a knock at the door.

Josh looks up and Burke is already moving to the door. There’s no real warning, when someone comes to visit, but the beds are always made. Josh isn’t quick to admit he enjoys the company, but he’d be remiss to shut anyone out. When Burke opens the door, he hears him gasp.

A quiet “hi” sends Burke down on one knee, he hugs the person in front of him.

NaN. The kid is a little taller now, the glitching and static floats above the pair as Burke holds him tight.

Josh gets up as Burke is letting go. Burke laughs then “Help me up would you?” NaN extends a hand, and Burke braces himself as he gets back to his feet.

Burke is leading NaN into the living room when the kid spots him.

NaN stares up at him for a moment, blinking.

Josh smiles.

NaN runs forward, hugging him, pushing into his stomach.

“Oof” Josh braces the kid, surprised at the rush.

NaN’s voice is quiet, he turns his head to he side so Burke can hear him too.

“I missed you guys.”

Burke walks over to both of them, his hand resting on Josh’s shoulder, “We missed you too. Have you been doing okay?” It’s a loaded question, Burke looks at him with an immediate regret in his eyes.

NaN sighs anyways, “I–do not like Philly.”

Josh mutters “Does anyone?”

Burke hits him lightly on the shoulder.

“Is that what brought you here?” Burke’s voice is soft. The same softness he heard seasons ago when NaN first arrived.

“It’s the roam…actually.”

Right.

That’s right.

Brock has told them about running into roamers, it’s the only reason they can still see Jas now after all this time.

The poor kid probably didn’t want it to be this way. He knows how hard it can be when you can’t settle.

“Do you know how long you can stay kiddo?” Burke’s voice is gentle.

NaN sighs, “I know I can stay for a bit…at least.”

Josh cuts in, pitting his hands on NaN’s shoulders, “Well hey, we have a bedroom ready, why don’t you rest, and I’ll put dinner on.”

NaN looks up at him and smiles.

The kid is quick to hug Josh again, and a moment later he’s hugging Burke.

With one last “Thanks” NaN walks to his bedroom like routine.

Burke looks up at Josh. His smile is almost nostalgic.

“Do you want help with dinner?”

Josh nods at his partner.

At least for tonight, the house will get to feel a bit more like home.

Commemorate

Just before season 15, there’s a practice day, and Lucy is called to Sam’s office.

She checks her locker like any other morning once she gets to the stadium, and there’s a pristine, clean slice of strawberry rhubarb sitting on a gilded plate, resting on her scripts and books.

She doesn’t move to remove it, she glances around a moment, but before she can speak up. Eduardo is looking at her, shaking his head, and her mouth falls shut.

Walking up to her, Eddie shuts the locker quietly, while he cannot sigh, his eyes flicker, and a comforting metal hand meets her forearm.

“Go up to Sam’s office. This means business.”

Lucy doesn’t have any questions, she knows, at least, some about the manager of the team, she has at least seen him once, on the day she signed. The stories about him are tense, she even fondly remembers Jessica calling him a number of expletives at some point during a visit. Regardless, the Philly Pies take business as seriously as they do winning, and this is no jovial manner.

Lucy smiles at Eduardo, “Thank you dear.”

Eddie nods at her, letting his arm fall, “see you soon.”

So she goes. Heels clacking up stairs, the piece of pie in her hands still as pristine as ever, by the time she makes it to Sam’s gilded door, she’s putting on that practiced smile. This is no worse than any audition room, certainly no worse than any directors meeting, she knows she will be fine.

She knocks and the door opens wide. Sam is sitting there, and he grins.

“Ms. Tokkan, take a seat.”

She walks in, and does as asked, “What can I do for you Mr. H-”

“Sam is fine dear,” he cuts her off, “I’d just like to talk about your place on the team.”

Oh.

Oh dear.

Lucy paints a smile.

“What can I do for you? Am I pitching or batting?”

“Neither actually,” Sam perches his elbows on the table, resting his head in his hands, “developmental has determined you aren’t quite ready yet, but in due time all things work out.”

She’s not playing.

What does he want?

“Do you have another role in mind for me?”

Sam’s wide grin creeps into view and Lucy just keeps herself from shuttering.

“From my understanding, you’ve been spending quite some time in the Piebrary, is that correct?”

Lucy nods, “Yes, I thought I’d test out the cherry pie recipes.”

Sam’s nostrils flare, he looks almost delighted, “Not everyone has a pension for baking like you do dear. Amazing on the stage, amazing in the kitchen, you even got perfect marks in mortuary school.”

Lucy’s smiling performance slides off of her face in an instant.

“Those records are private.”

Sam keeps grinning, “Nothing stays private forever dear, which was quite fortunate for me.”

Lucy’s lip twitches, she cocks her head and closes her eyes before asking the question one more time, “What can I do for you?”

Sam sits back. He’s clearly satisfied getting under her skin. “I need you to help in concessions. I believe you know about our commemorative pies.”

She blanches a bit, remembering the gaudy advertising about ashes.

Ashes.

Wait.

“You’ll have a special role that unfortunately the previous holder is unable to fill.”

Lucy’s lips are tight.

“You’ll be responsible for assuring everything surrounding those pies is perfect of course, and if any new recipes are to come of this, I’m sure you’ll be fantastic at figuring it out.”

Lucy feels faint, she needs out of this office. Now.

“I understand.”

Sam stands up, he’s walking to the door. When did the door close? She’s standing now too.

“I’m happy to see you undertake this position Ms. Tokkan, and I trust you won’t let me down?”

She puts on that smile again, “Of course Sam.”

He nods, “Good.”

He leads her out the door before shutting it in on himself, and Lucy stands in the hall alone.

She’s done it.

She never knew any of them, not really, Eddie or Lang or even Bright will talk about them.

She didn’t know them.

But she knows their faces.

Genetic material and technology she doesn’t understand is one hell of a baking technique and time after time again the racks are stocked with peach and apple and Mississippi mud and gooseberry and coconut cream and Lucy has never loathed the smell of sugar and fruit more in her life until now.

She does this, without fail because what else is there to do when the man upstairs expects this task done expertly.

She was even briefed, as much as a big black “recipe book” can brief a person about handling ashen remains in a culinary setting and what to do when the umps target someone new.

It’s been seasons though.

Yeong-Ho died before she was here.

Just like in school, she doesn’t let the grief hit her. Maybe it was the years of exposure, maybe it’s the acting classes she secretly paid for during college. She’s fine.

Getting called to pitch is a saving grace. She’s elbow deep in the crust when she gets the fax, and she knows damn well when she walks out onto the field shades of Mickey Woods gray are probably smudged across her face.

She does well.

Sam has not reassigned the task, she works on the days she doesn’t pitch.

Lang jokes about bags under her eyes and she punches him.

She is tired. The faces of the dead come in waves. This is why she went to acting, the faces haunted her then too, she never had to hold their hands then.

Maybe she’s hoping for the end of the world.

She’s never been a fan of comedy.

Bright burns.

In all the seasons she knew the girl, in all the seasons she didn’t, she knew that Philly was her home, even if it didn’t love her back.

Ruslan and Eduardo stare at her when she sweeps up the ashes. They try to tell her there’s no point and the glare she gives them both sends them turning heel. She bags them up. She does not bake.

Eddie knew about her task, eventually, after a particularly bad game, she confided in the metal man.

Both of them thought the last bit of her training would never come to fruition.

Pie or die and no one had died in a long long time.

But here she is holding the ashes of a girl in her locker refusing to use them for their expected purpose. They haven’t heard from Sam all season, and there sure as hell isn’t anyone in the stands itching for a Bright themed snack.

Day 67 and Lucy feels sick from all of the gaudy pink. San Francisco is still hot without the sun and worse with the supernova, but when Holloway leaves scorches in the grass, she’s out on the field before anyone else can catch her.

Eddie is trying to pull her back, he’s yelling at her, what the fuck are you going to do with those ashes with no mouths to feed, there’s no demand at the end of the world.

This isn’t about the pies in the concessions or her duty to the boss, in everything she has done from long before taking the field, in those damn classes that got her into this mess, she understood how important it was to not let these ashes go forgotten.

She doesn’t answer Eddie’s question. She doesn’t write recipes. She fashions urns out of emptied flour and sugar cans. After every single Mickey and Cedric and Juan and Forest and Hobbs and Yeong-Ho it’s the bare fucking minimum she can do.

She asks herself if saving the two of them makes up for it all, what she’s become.

Day 79, she doesn’t get her answer.