Chapter Text
The Talkers keep going. They always do. Blaseball doesn't give them a choice in the matter. At least they have a reason to win, now. Not for fun. Not just because they can.
For York.
CV and Jesús have custody of the Vibe Check now. They bring it to the games, leave it resting there in the dugout. It's become a habit for everyone to touch it every time they go up. For luck. For strength. For York.
Dot hasn't had a chance to go up yet. The Talkers have only played two games since then, which is strange to think about, because it feels as if it's been an eternity. Dot’s been left almost-alone in the dugout with the Vibe Check half the time, and yet it still seems to take up an unbearable amount of space.
They can still pitch. Of course they can. They haven't played a game since, but they've gone out and pitched to Workman, like they always do, needing to find that rhythm, and they tried to, they did, but they thought of York, of how they’d practiced with him in that same park as he learned to believe in himself again, to hold the Vibe Check in those hands that still didn’t quite feel like his own, but were.
That was forever ago. So long ago that Workman was still gone. The world is relentless in its changing.
It's okay that Workman hits their pitches. It happens half the time. They’re equals. It's fine. They throw some good strikes, too, so it's fine, and anyway they don't need to be better than Workman, they just need to be better than everyone they face in the game. Just pitch. It's fine.
They’re facing the Breath Mints today. Dot’s first team. They’d belonged there, once, several lifetimes ago. They'd never forgotten that, though they'd forgotten the how of it, so many details burned away with the unforgivingly bright light of their new stars.
Their memories had started trickling back, after the unshelling. Not completely, never completely, their old life is too far gone for that, but it was a start. Over the long siesta, they'd eventually worked up the courage to try reconnecting with their former teammates, the ones they’d left behind, the ones who were still left at all.
They're not the person they once were, but, really, is anyone? The Mints understand, for the most part, and though it hasn't always been easy, Dot feels they owe it to their former teammates to try.
Not today, though. They're not here to chat, or to have fun, or even just to pitch.
They're here to win.
For York.
Dot whispers it as they walk past the Vibe Check, the tips of their tentacle-fingers drifting across the cold metal. They don't linger. They can't afford to linger. No hesitation. No doubts. Just take the mound and win for him.
First up: Hewitt Best. Former teammate.
Current opponent.
Okay. Just pitch. You've practiced, since that day, not that you need to practice, but you had to make sure you could throw better than you did that day in the darkness -- and that other day in the darkness, and -- and you can, of course you can, you're PolkaDot Patterson. Throw the ball.
Strike, looking. Good.
He hits the next pitch, but CV scoops it up without any of his usual flair, throws it to first. Out.
Only twenty-six more to go. Easy.
Next: Rodriguez Internet. Not a former teammate, exactly. Not the same Rod who used to be there. They barely remember the first one. They barely know this one.
One.
Doesn't matter who he is.
Two.
Only one thing matters.
Three.
Out.
Jessica Telephone. Former teammate of many, but not Dot. Blessed at the same time. Stolen more often than they've been. Twice trapped in a shell. Former Pod, along with York.
They understand her.
One.
They respect her.
Two.
They do not fear her.
Crack.
Oh. That's bad.
...No. It's okay. She's Jessica Telephone. She hits home runs. It's what she does. She knows -- she knew York too. She wants to win for him, too.
But this isn't her team. This is York’s team. Not his first team, not his only team, but still, his team.
It's okay. It doesn't have to be a shutout. Just a win. The team will make up for it. It's still early. Just don't let any more in.
Marco Stink.
Out.
Well. That was three. Not as fast as it should have been. Not as good as it should have been. But it's still early.
Dot goes back to the dugout. Sits down with their teammates. It's always quiet there, now, even when it's mostly full.
They watch the different ways their teammates touch the Vibe Check before going up to bat. Eugenia gently and carefully, not wanting to stain it with any residue. Ziwa bows their head with a quiet fierceness. Cedric barely lets his fingertips brush it, as if he doesn't think he's worthy of touching it at all. CV grips it tightly as he whispers, not wanting to let go.
None of them score, though Cedric at least hits a single.
Well. That's okay. Dot will hold the Mints off until they do. Touch the Vibe Check again. Take the mound.
For York.
Helga Washington is Elsewhere…
Grey Alvarado is Elsewhere…
Marquez Clark. Former teammate. Recently returned from the Shadows after spending a long time there. Dot barely knows him anymore, even compared to the other Mints.
Is it bad that they almost want to keep it that way? He was nice enough, they remember that, but that was Before. After, they can never forget the way he had grinned under a blood-red sky before sinking his fangs into Workman, stealing some of their hitting, leaving them to live out what would become the last days of their first life with a slight unsteadiness, even before Jaylen had hit them with that pitch.
She’d hit Marq long before that, and then she'd hit him four times afterward, and he still came out of it all unscathed.
Dot can't hit him, of course, and they wouldn't if they could, of course they wouldn't, and not just because it would put him on base. A strikeout is a good enough form of revenge. It's what they're best at, after all.
Crack.
It's what they're best at. Why can't they do it right?
Okay. It's okay. It's just a double. It's fine. Just three more outs, still. It's fine.
Joshua Watson. Former teammate, but from the Crabs. Strange how these things work out.
Out.
Hewitt Best. Already?
Strike, looking. Again. Predictable.
Crack.
...Well. Maybe not so predictable after all. A single. And another run scored -- Marq, of course it had to be him.
Okay. You're thinking too much. Stop thinking. Just pitch. Find the rhythm. It's not hard.
At least, it's not supposed to be. Not even after their teammates -- well, they were always able to do it before. Maybe it's good that they can't escape like they used to. That they can feel something, instead of nothing.
Or it would be good, if they didn't need to win this.
Okay. New approach. One on base. One out. A question they rarely ask themselves with regards to pitching, unless they plan to do the opposite: What would Morse do?
They can practically hear his voice in their head. All part of the plan, he’d say. Set up the double play, it’s the most effective way to get outs.
Just do your best. Guess I don't need to tell you that when you always work so hard, but remember it's okay to do your best and still lose. That's just the way the game goes, sometimes. Losing doesn't have to mean failure.
...Okay. Enough advice. That last part isn't relevant right now. They are failing York if they lose.
Rod again.
Throw the ball.
It's a beautiful double play. Morse would be proud. Wouldn't he? Maybe he's watching now.
York certainly isn’t.
Twenty-one more outs to go. The team had better start getting some runs.
Jesús’ hand lingers on the Vibe Check almost as long as CV’s does, but his touch is light, as if he doesn't have the energy to hold on.
They hit the ball right to Marquez Clark, of all people.
Beans winds around the Vibe Check much as she used to wind around York’s legs, though she no longer purrs -- and she hits a single. Pressure on. Good start.
Alston's not there to touch it at all.
Lachlan doesn't linger, just a quick press of his hand, a quick whisper, though no less sincere. He's determined to get out there, not hold the team back, do something useful.
Singles are useful. That's two on base.
For all Fish’s strength, they're exceedingly delicate when they touch it, as if they're worried they might snap it in two, or worried that York doesn't want them anywhere near it, because they weren't able to eat any fire until it was too late.
It's not their fault. It's not any of their faults. No matter what it might feel like.
Fish’s performance is a depressing echo of Jesús’, the ball landing right in that same glove. Marq is certainly having a spectacular game already. Wonderful. Fantastic. Good for him.
Lucien Patchwork is York's replacement. Dot has been trying not to hold this against them. Someone had to be, and it's them, and that's not their fault. They touch the Vibe Check with the utmost respect, though they never knew York, and Dot respects them for that, in turn.
They draw a walk. Leach certainly loves her walks. She's like Morse in that regard.
Bases loaded. Two outs. High Pressure.
Only the second inning, though. Don't forget that. There’s time.
Eugenia again, hand carefully brushing the Vibe Check. Normally, they’d have faith in her to hit a grand slam, leave the crowd yelling GARBAGE DAY, but she hasn't been quite herself since returning from Elsewhere. She knows it, too, and sadly oozes back to the dugout after Rod makes the catch.
“It's okay,” Dot says. “I know you can get it next time.”
They don't know, but that doesn't matter. How could they, how could anyone, ever blame Eugenia for anything?
This is Dot’s game to lose, anyway, so they had better stop losing it.
Touch the Vibe Check again. For York. And then, this time, put it all out of their mind. Just for a moment. Just for three outs. That's all the time they need, for now.
No thoughts.
Only blaseball.
Jessica Telephone.
One.
Two.
Three.
Out.
Marco Stink.
One.
Two.
Three.
Out.
Marquez Clark, who -- no. Stop.
One.
Two.
Three.
Out.
Is there anything more satisfying than an immaculate inning? Not in this moment, certainly. It's all the proof they needed.
The next few innings don't quite reach that standard, but that's okay, they don't let any more runs in, and that's what matters. They should be happy about that, they know, but they're not, the score is still 2-0 even halfway through the game, and they're not going to blame their teammates for not getting runs, of course they're not, but it would still be tied if they hadn't let those runs in so early.
But their teammates do start getting runs, finally. It's CV and Jesús, of course it is, both on base, and normally they'd be grinning at each other, or CV would have already done something silly for the stream and tried to convince Jesús to do it too, but this time they're serious, just ready to run.
And they do, when Beans hits a beautiful homer, cross the plate one after another with no celebration, just a grim satisfaction, and they both touch the Vibe Check on the way back, too.
3-2 for the Talkers. Dot can relax a bit, now.
But they don't. Not really. Not even though they don't give up any more runs. Not even when the home runs start flooding in for the Talkers. Not even when they finish the last inning with a nice three-up-three-down (it could have been better, they threw a ball, what were they doing?) and the game ends 11-2, which isn't even close.
No, they're still tense, because this isn't the end of anything. They still have another game before the end of the season, and they need to do better in that one. And there are all the other games, the ones they have no control over (not that they ever really have control over much of anything, anyway). And then, of course, there are the playoffs, where winning is more important than ever.
They say a few words to their teammates. Something about how well they all did. How they're making York proud. No one really listens anymore. That's fine. Dot’s not really listening to themselves, either.
They make sure to leave with Beasley this time, of course. Not hard to do. He follows them everywhere, now, when Workman's not around. Dot wishes they could promise him they won't leave him behind, but of course they can't do that, can they? Blaseball offers no such guarantees.
Workman's waiting for them on the way out, managing a smile for Beasley as he runs over. They don't seem quite as happy about Dot.
“Good game,” Workman says, eventually.
Of course they’re hesitant to say it. It wasn't that good, really. Dot gave up two runs so quickly. They were losing for a long time.
“Not for me. But at least we did win, in the end. Thanks to the others.”
“No, not for you. But not because of how you pitched, there was nothing wrong with that. You were just... out of it. I could tell.”
Was it that obvious?
“I am fine. We won. For York.”
They're frowning. “You've never cared about winning. Not like this.”
When does winning matter? When it's the only thing you shouldn't be able to mess up. The only thing left you can do for someone.
Or when people will get hurt if you don’t, if you can't pitch a good enough game, can't end it fast enough --
“Dot?”
Workman's always worrying about them, lately. Dot’s not the one who should be worried about. They're fine. They can still pitch. They're alive, and have never stopped being alive.
“I care because it matters, now. We have to win it all for him.”
“I know you want to,” Workman says carefully. “All of you. I hope you can. But it's okay if you don't.”
Is it? Dot doesn't think it'll be okay even if they do, but they can do it, they have to, and so they will.
“Dot? You know it's okay if you don't, right? It doesn't mean you’ve failed him.”
Again. Failed him again. This, at least, is one thing they should be able to do.
“We will.”
They sigh. “You know it was like this when… when we were gone, right? After so many were lost that season, everyone who was left wanted to win it for us. And they didn't. And the world went on anyway, and you came back, and me and Kiki came back. And it was okay, or as okay as it could be.”
Will York come back? Maybe. The Hall Stars did. Jaylen did, but no, they don't want that for York, not like that.
“Yes. I know.”
“You're always so hard on yourself. You wouldn't do this to the others, would you? Blame Jesús and Fish for not getting there quick enough? Greer for not pitching a better game? CV for goofing around with him right before it happened? Would you put the same pressure on them to win every game to make up for it?”
“...No.”
Of course Dot wouldn't. But the others are different. They weren’t made to be the best at what they do. They don't have this kind of power.
“You’re not failing your teammates if you lose. You're not failing them by -- by watching them die. The gods are failing us. They're letting this happen. It's not your responsibility to save everyone. It’s never any one person’s job to do that.”
“Okay.”
“...Are you listening?”
Yes. They're listening. It doesn't mean they’re really absorbing it, or they believe it, but they're listening. Or trying to, anyway.
“Yes. Sorry.” Workman shouldn't have to talk about these things to get their point across. Death. Returning. Dot needs to do better.
“You need a break from all this. It’s five days until you pitch another game, and that's your last of the season. There's nothing you need to do until then. You've been taking on too much.”
Nothing? They need to pitch more, their fingers already itching to hold a blaseball again. They need to go throw a better pitch than the one they threw to Jess, as many better pitches as it takes until they can almost believe they won't mess it up next time. They need to be ready for the next game. They need to win that one, too. Workman will practice with them. They always do.
Well. Not always.
Workman worries about them sometimes, Dot knows. Worries that they get too fixated on pitching, in moments like this, like they did when -- well. That's what Workman’s saying now, isn't it? Dot doesn't want them to worry, they've got enough problems already. They deserve better than this.
“A break,” Dot says slowly. “Yes. Maybe.”
They can't just do things for York. They have to do things for the people who are still here, too.
“You want to go home?”
Home. With all the echoes of York. No. Not yet. It'll just make them want to come right back here.
The echoes of York are here, too, though. They’re everywhere. Maybe it doesn’t matter where they go.
“Can we just... walk somewhere? Anywhere?”
“Of course.”
And so they go, out into the damp streets of Sunken Halifax, Beasley following along. They don't talk, and that's okay, this kind of quiet is good. You can't get this kind of quiet on the field. It clears Dot’s head a bit, as much as it possibly can, and that's a start.
The ocean is everywhere, here in this city, but they find a place where it stretches all the way out into the horizon, stand there and watch, hear the crash of the waves, smell the salt. York used to come here; it reminded him of home, though colder.
This place might have more in common with the Trench than Hawai’i, Dot thinks. Would that be better or worse for him, now that he's there?
“He'll be okay there,” Workman says, as if they know exactly what Dot’s thinking. “As okay as anyone can be, there. It’s not too bad, honestly. They'll all take good care of him. He won’t be alone.”
“I… I hope he can rest now,” Dot says. “He didn't deserve any of this. The attention. The stardom. Everything that came with it... he went through so much, more than I did, and he never let it break him. He never should have been here at all, this splort is no place for a child, but he shouldn't be gone, either.”
Workman nods, and Beasley whines, just a little, and they all stand there and think of him, for a while.
Ever since he fell, he'd always had that fear, lingering beneath the surface. Of not being himself. Dot understood that more than most people. The gods have loosened their grip on them (though not entirely, never entirely), but they've never forgotten how it feels to not be in control.
They’d almost felt it today. And without the gods in their head, they’re the only one to blame for it.
“I feel like someone else, sometimes,” Dot says after a while. “When I pitch. And that can be good. But not like this.”
Workman's quiet amid the crashing of the waves. Listening. And so Dot continues.
“Sometimes I forget I can be more than just a pitcher. Sometimes I don't think I am. Sometimes I think nothing else matters. York... York was one of the people who helped me remember. And I worry that with him gone, I will start to forget, every time I step on that field. Like I did today. Because I want to win for him. I still do. And I am not sure I will be able to let go of that until we lift the trophy.”
Quiet, again, for a moment. The distant squawking of seagulls. The slow thump of Beasley's tail.
“I think,” Workman says finally, “It's good you can realize that. Especially so soon. And I think the rest of the team feels the way you do, on some level or another. I’ve felt it too. I'd feel it now if I was still playing, and I'm not, so I feel like I can't do much of anything at all for either of my teams. And I have to remind myself I can.”
“Of course you can,” Dot says. “You remind me of who I am, too. More than anyone. You're doing it now, and that is something invaluable.”
“And I think that's exactly the kind of thing we need to remember. York would want you all to win, sure, but more than anything he'd want you to just be. To keep going with your lives, not run yourselves into the ground trying to do something you've never done before.”
“What if I do anyway? What if I step out on that field in five days and everything is even worse?”
“A lot can happen in five days. We’ll face it when we get there.”
Five days ago, York was still alive.
So, yes. A lot can happen.
“Yes,” Dot says. “Yes. Okay. I… I will try.”
“I know you will.”
It's a start.
They stand there a while longer, in the soft quiet, until the sun goes down and they have to turn back for home.
Dot doesn't throw any more pitches that day. That almost feels okay.
A lot does happen, in the next five days. Nothing bad, though. Nothing terrible, anyway. The Talkers lose two of their three games to the Crabs. They'll need to win every game from there on out if they want to end with 69 wins, which is exceedingly unlikely.
That's fine. It's fine. It's just a stupid number. What really matters is making the playoffs. They're guaranteed to do that already. It's fine.
They’re playing another series against the Mints. Beasley's pitching. Tied in the eighth. It's okay if they don't win, Dot supposes. It's just a number. They can't possibly lose every game and fail to make the playoffs entirely. Dot will win the next game for them, for him, anyway. They have to.
Well. No. They don't have to.
But they're going to.
Alston returns right after the pressure turns on that inning, struggling his way through the immateria, looking lost and bedraggled but not Scattered. His eyes find Cedric first, and he smiles.
And then his eyes find Lucien, and he freezes, knowing something's gone horribly wrong, and he quickly scans the remaining faces until he realizes which one is missing, and his smile is swept back away.
But he's here, and, finally, the Talkers are a full team again. For a little while, at least. Not quite the same team that he left, but still the Talkers, always.
Alston’s hands shake when he touches the Vibe Check in the next inning, but he looks fierce and focused despite it all. Steps up to the plate. Knocks the ball right out of the park. Breaks the tie.
For York.
Dot has to play the Mints again. The last game they’re pitching during the regular season. That's fine. They won last time, and they can win this time, too. It's Coffee 2 weather. That's good. Safe. Good for CV, especially; at least he can perk up in some way, take that energy and put it towards winning for York.
He's taking it all very hard, of course. Focused on winning, on doing the best he possibly can. He still streams, but there are no more antics; he just wants the world to see him do this for York, because York himself can't see it.
Dot should talk to him, probably. Tell him to not put so much pressure on himself. If they can figure out a way to do it without sounding like a massive hypocrite.
Well. Maybe start by just pitching this game. Like you always do. Don't think about winning, this time. You never used to, and you'd still win, and it was better.
They're not up first, though. They sit and watch the batters go through their usual Vibe Check rituals on the way by. Eugenia? Out. Ziwa? Out. That's okay. It's early.
No. It's just okay because it's okay. Stop worrying about it.
Cedric, though? Cedric hits a home run, and it's beautiful.
See, nothing to worry about.
CV bounds up to the plate, buzzing with energy, ready to hit his own home run for York. He doesn't, though, and Dot watches him frowning as he slinks back to the dugout, muttering to himself.
Yes. Dot should definitely talk to him. But they can't right now, they have to go pitch. Just think about pitching. Don't think about CV. Don't think about York. Not this time. It's just a game. Just a nice regular season game. Find the rhythm.
Hewitt Best.
One.
Two.
Three.
Out.
Rodriguez Internet is Elsewhere…
Yes, a lot can change in five days.
Jessica Telephone.
Crack .
But not enough. That's bad, that's -- wait, no it's not. Thank you, Lachlan. Nice catch.
Out.
Marco Stink.
One.
Two.
Three.
Out.
Good.
And so it goes, for the rest of the game. The Talkers score a few runs, and the Mints don't, and Dot is -- fine, it's fine, they're not worrying about it, it's just a game, and they're winning, and that's good, and they're going to get a shutout, maybe, and that would be even better, and it's the ninth inning, and the Talkers are up by 4, so they can't mess this up now -- and they can't, right? They're better than that.
Grey Alvarado. Or, more accurately, --e- --varado, back from Elsewhere, Scattered. Good to see him again.
One.
Two.
Three.
Even better to strike him out again.
...No, not even better, what kind of a thing is that to think? Get it together, Dot.
Marquez Clark. Don't think anything about him at all.
...
Ball. That was a ball. Get it together, Dot. Honestly.
One.
Two.
Three.
Out.
That's more like it.
Joshua Watson.
One.
Two.
Three.
Out.
Game over. Talkers win. For York.
That was almost an immaculate inning. Almost perfect. Not quite.
Well. That's okay. They won, didn't they? They won for York. They got a shutout. They should be happy.
Well. Not happy. Not anymore. Satisfied? Not feeling like they're failing anyone?
Right now, they can settle for that.
Bright loses his game. Of course he does. For once he has nothing to say about it, which is good, because no one really wants to bother yelling at him, or blaming him, or anything.
And it's not over, as CV points out. There was no coffee this game, but he still has a manic energy about him.
“Sun 2 tomorrow! Against the Thieves! Against Simba! All we need to do is loop once and win, and we're still on track!”
“We can manage that,” Ziwa says. “Still, don't count the Thieves out. Especially not in the last two games.”
CV’s not listening; he's going on about how they need to do it for York. And they can, they can do it for York, the Thieves are having a bad season and the Talkers are having a fantastic one (record-wise, at least), it shouldn't be too hard to win all three games.
And what if they don't?
It's just a number. Just a silly number.
Dot waits around, after the game. Texts Workman, saying they might be a little while. Sits with Beasley. Runs their hands through his fur. Thinks about what they should say. Tries to convince themselves of it, too.
They're talking, in the locker room. CV and Jesús. Dot doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but it's not eavesdropping if they’re right across the room and know you’re there.
“What if we see him?” CV asks, quieter than he was before. “It's three entire games. Lots of chances for him to show up.”
Dot has thought about this, too. They know Esme’s haunting isn’t so simple; lots of ghosts are jostling for a spot when they can manage to drift up from the Hall at all, and she has to agree to let them take over…
Jesús is no stranger to ghosts himself. Would he be able to see York on his own? Would he want to?
“He might not be ready for that,” Jesús says, not seeming particularly ready for it, either.
“And that's fine!” CV says quickly. “Of course. I’m sure he's still getting used to being... there. The others can bring messages for him.”
“He might not be ready for that, either.”
“You think he doesn't even want to talk to us?”
“I don't know what I think anymore,” Jesús sighs. They sound exhausted. “I just want you to be prepared for whatever might happen.”
“It'll be okay,” CV says, desperately wanting to believe it. “We’re going to win all the games, and even if he doesn't show up, the others can tell him about it, tell him we got 69 wins, and he'll say nice, and...”
“And?” Jesús asks quietly.
CV has no response for that. Dot figures it's time to step in. What were they going to say?
Just... just say something. York's gone, but his friends are still here, and you need to be there for each other. Be the responsible adult they need.
“I think York would be happy to see you, or hear about you,” Dot says, striding over. “You're his best friends, and he would be worried about how you're doing with him gone. And he would want you to be okay, and to not worry about him, and to just -- just don't be so hard on yourselves. You mean more to him than any amount of wins ever could.”
CV and Jesús are both staring at Dot. Jesús is crying a little. Was that good advice? Dot thinks that might have been good advice. They almost convinced themselves to take it.
“I… I still want to win for him, though,” CV finally says. Jesús frowns at him, wiping their eyes.
“I know,” Dot says. “I do too. And I think we can. And I am also trying to think it will be okay if we can't.”
“Nothing about this is okay,” Jesús says.
“No,” Dot agrees. “No. You're right. But I hope we will get there. And I am not sure if winning will be the way to do that. It might help. It might not.”
“It can't hurt,” CV insists.
Can't it?
“We do not have to think about that, right now. This game is over. The next game is not until tomorrow.” Dot hesitates, thinking about CV and Jesús going home every day to a space that feels so empty. “Would you like to come over for a while? You are still welcome at our place, always.” Maybe they can all talk some sense into each other. Or talk, at least. Or just be, together.
“Can I bring Budy?” CV asks.
Beasley wags his tail eagerly.
“Of course.”
And with that, CV darts out of the room, ready to go.
Jesús sighs as they turn to follow. “Thanks for trying, at least. He hasn’t really been listening to me. Not that I’ve been saying too much. I just… I don’t know. I’m so tired. I can’t do enough for him.” He looks on the verge of tears again.
“We are all grieving,” Dot says softly. “We all struggle in our own ways. You are still there for each other in whatever ways you can be, and that is enough.”
“It’s just… he’s afraid to stop. Afraid he won’t be able to get going again if he does. But it’s only a matter of time before he crashes.”
“And when the time comes, we will be there to pick him back up.”
At least, Dot certainly hopes they will.
