Tag Archives: Mexico City Wild Wings

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.

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.

Cling

Josh is ogling him, he can tell.

He’s standing in the living room, staring wistfully into the dining room where he is standing, slowly putting on the parts of his space suit for the first time in over two decades.

Brock realizes that Josh never saw him in the space suit last time.

He moves to stretch feeling the layers of fabric and metal and polymer shift with him.

Then his husband wolf whistles.

“Alright alright that’s enough,” Brock sighs at him, walking towards the grinning man.

“What? Can a man not enjoy his husband all dressed up? Is it a crime to appreciate my cool astronaut husband?” Josh’s arms meet him as Brock gets closer, they slink around his hips. He pulls him in close.

“First off, not an astronaut, second off, I didn’t know you were in space suits, hun.”

Josh laughs at that, “Tell you the truth, I’m really not.”

Brock doesn’t expect that to be the end of the sentence, the silence sits for a moment before Josh speaks again.

“Just wanted to appreciate you…before you left.”

Brock takes his glove off of his hand and rests his palm against Josh’s cheek, “You know that I’ll be home soon.”

“I know I just–” Josh’s voice catches, the tell tale sign of anxiety is clear on his face.

“I know,” Brock supplies, “And I will not leave you, under any circumstances.” “You’re gonna keep writing things down right?” Josh asks him, glancing at the bookshelf that housed his journal from the last major expedition.

“Yes, obviously I need to keep scientific data and observations, but I won’t leave you empty handed either.”

Josh smiles at that, “That’s all I ask.”

Brock’s hand moves from Josh’s cheek to the back of his head.

Josh’s arms hold tighter around his waist.

Brock kisses him.

He kisses him for a long time.

Enough to savor it, to remember the cool touch of his skin.

To remember the shape of his face and his lips and the texture of his hair.

Josh is holding his waist tighter, clinging to his husband tight.

He’s savoring it too.

He didn’t savor it then, when he left for the sun all those years ago.

But he will damn sure savor it now, and he will do this, again and again and again and again, every return from the void, every expedition he goes on.

If nothing else, Brock Watson is a man of science.

But Brock Watson is a man who loves first and foremost.

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.

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.