Chapter Text
It could be nice to be swept Elsewhere for once, Alto thinks. Let the Immateria carry them somewhere other than home. Have a rest from endlessly swinging their bat until it feels more automatic than breathing. Find their way to the Wlaffle House, sit down and chat with some players they never get a chance to talk to. Hell, even wandering lost and alone through a foggy forest sounds like a nice change of pace.
But there will be no change of pace for them, of course. Play must continue, and Alto is always the one to continue it, their flippers keeping them in the stadium no matter how much the currents tug. Even the salmon cannons haven’t taken any interest in them yet. What happens when a team runs out of batters? The Talkers don't get to find out.
Alto’s lost track of how many games they played alone in the lineup. They even lost track of when their solo ended. A few days after the commissioner's speech to the league, and a few days before they stood in front of the doors to the Hall. They know that much, at least.
hey talkers , the Monitor had said, and it felt right. Alto stood there with their tentacle-hand clasped in Dot’s, and thought yes, that's me, I'm part of this , and then immediately felt bad for thinking it. Such a big part of them still longs to be with the Mechs on the other side of the world in the desert, not deep beneath the sea, no matter what their appearance might suggest.
Being a Talker doesn't make them any less of a Mech. They remind themselves of this as they're drawn back towards the Hall, Gleek Arena somehow travelling through space while still being exactly where it needs to be to let them play their games. Dot told them they should have the dimensional abilities to understand it, but Alto figures it's not worth trying. They've got enough headaches already.
The games don't really mean anything anymore. The real contest is taking place on the map, all the teams against the Coin, and it feels like such a waste of time and energy to be playing blaseball all the while. Which is exactly what the Coin wants, of course. Play must continue. Anything to keep the fans happy. Anything to distract the players from their plans.
London's back from Elsewhere, for now. Back to stand under the supernova with Alto, one more person to stare death in the face. Alto would shove the whole team Elsewhere if they could, somewhere safe from the eclipse.
If only they could go, too.
Would being Elsewhere even save anyone, if a whole team is incinerated? They don't know. They don't want to find out. They simply pick up their bat, half as often as they have been lately, and swing. Don't think about the eclipse. Hit the ball. Don't think about the Mints and the Fridays. Run the bases. Don't think about the Mechs, impossibly far away. Score another run, or two, or ten, who's even keeping track of this stupid scoring system anymore? Don't think about that, either. Cheer for London. It'll be your turn again in just a second.
It’s almost halfway through the season, supposedly -- though at this point, Alto's not sure anyone will make it to the end. If Parker and the supernova don't get them, the unravelling of the world will, the black hole creeping ever closer. Whatever waits on the other side, if anything at all, Alto hopes it's better than blaseball.
At least they don't have to deal with the supernova today. The jazz has given them the supermassive black hole, which is… fine? Probably? It’s been nullifying things at a rather alarming rate as all the absurd rules make the score tick up faster, but hey, maybe it'll nullify some of the absurd rules and then things will make a little more sense -- yes, there goes London's four-run solo homer nullifying the Bird Hotel.
Even glolf was never this confusing.
This game is shaping up to be a long one, and Alto’s glad they're not the Talkers' only batter anymore. They nod sympathetically at London's annoyed beeping as the Magic do some nullification of their own, causing one of the suns to wink out and then proceeding to tie it up.
What did Sun.1 even do? Alto doesn't remember, or really care.
Up to bat again. Hit another ground out. Back in the field again. Catch another ground out. It never ends, does it?
As ridiculous as the extra points can get, Alto has to admit it's pretty satisfying when they and London load the bases all by themselves, and Alto steps up to bat again -- just focus on batting, not on the Alto who's on base, just look out this set of eyes at the pitcher and don't worry about anything else -- and swings, and watches the ball fly into the stands.
Ten-point grand slam.
As they cross home plate, and then cross it again, the screens are flashing SHAME, because that's what it should be -- but they've set off the black hole again, and all ten of those runs have vanished as quickly as they appeared, and the game's still tied.
What did they even nullify? Alto looks to the dugout, where Jenkins is shouting indignantly that their socks have disappeared, and manages not to laugh. Alto Patterson, hitter of grand slams and destroyer of socks.
But that's not the last thing they destroy. In the fourteenth inning -- has it really only been fourteen? Feels like they've been there forever -- Alto lets a couple pitches fly past, waiting for the right one, and then they swing as hard as ever, their arms never tired enough to stop, and watch another ball sail far into the distance.
It's exactly enough to set off the black hole again. The stables disappear, and, well, maybe that's not ideal, but at this rate someone's going to nullify the concept of instability or something, so does it really matter?
Alto goes back to the dugout, and watches London hit a ground out, and goes back up to the plate, and draws a walk, and watches London hit another ground out, and doesn't see the darkness coming until it crashes right over them stronger than any wave of immateria, a tide they finally can't escape, pulling them down into the Shadows.
The first time Alto got shoved into the Shadows, it wasn’t a surprise. Once they realized their pitching ability didn't come close to Dot’s, they knew it was only a matter of time, knew they wouldn't last the season before the fax machine kicked them out. And when it did, the Shadows brought relief and frustration all at once. No more agonizing games on the mound where so many of their pitches landed anywhere but where they wanted -- though this rest came with burning shame, anger at themself and the league and Dot and everyone who had expected them to be like Dot. There it was, the proof they could never be what the fans wanted.
Still, Alto had learned to find comfort in the Shadows, for a time. A place to rest and hone their batting skills, to get to know the Core better and help out any way they could. But after a few seasons, they grew restless, longing to prove themself, show that they could play blaseball, just not in the way the world expected from PolkaDot Patterson.
And then they finally broke out, ready to bat for the Mechs, and --
Now, Alto shakes their head, alone in the darkness. They don't like to think about that. Maybe they didn't prove themselves when and where they wanted to, but they still did in the end, didn't they? Even this voicemail is no reflection of their skill; the scoreboard may show a shutout, but everyone saw them score all those runs. This, at least, is not anything to be ashamed of.
It's always disorienting at first. Acclimatizing to the Shadows takes time, even for those who have been there before. Their eyes adjust to the darkness quickly; it's adjusting to the light that's the problem. The world outside becomes brighter and further away, too solid and tangible to be properly interacted with, fingers phasing through half the things they try to touch.
Much like how things have been for Dot, ever since Alto’s arrival in this world. Nothing is quite as it should be, and sometimes it's hard to hold on.
Alto shakes their head again. That's another day they don't like to think about.
But there's a figure standing in front of them now, arms outstretched towards the light, reaching, and all they can see is the first time they saw Dot, Dot clawing desperately at the universe, tearing holes in reality, pushing on and on until they ended up back where they belonged. They hadn't dragged Alto with them, but Alto ended up there all the same.
They're not looking at Dot now, though. This figure doesn't come into focus, which is actually what helps Alto identify it: Tiana Wheeler, searching for a way out of here. Right. Someone has to replace them, and Tiana already spent far too much time lost who-knows-where before the Shadows; it's only fair that she gets to step back out into the light.
It's a chaotic world out there. Tiana will have their work cut out for them, being half of the Talkers’ entire batting lineup at the end of the world, but what would being in the shadows do to protect them? Better to be free, to get a proper chance at seeing former teammates, to play an active role again.
“Good luck out there,” Alto says softly, doing their best to clasp one of Tiana's hands, right there on the border of tangibility and intangibility.
Tiana does not respond in words, but nods, and Alto gets the feeling it might be smiling at them.
And then she's gone, off to play the game Alto finally gets to take a break from.
The Core with its assortment of constant background noises is not quiet, but it is peaceful, at least to Alto. They know they should be in Halifax, should let their current teammates know they're okay, but they couldn't help themselves from phasing through the ground, heading Down to where they've always felt most comfortable in this world. Maybe it shouldn't be possible, not with the Talkers and Mechs heading in opposite directions, but if Dot can find their way back to this world, then Alto can at least find their way back to their own favourite part of it.
They don't check in with their old teammates, either. Not yet. They just find a comfortable, undisturbed corner, and curl up in it, relishing the peace, the knowledge that at last, there is nowhere they need to be, nothing they need to do.
It's a while before Dot comes to check on them. They appreciate that, at least. Not being bothered right away, but not being ignored, either. It's never hard for the two of them to find each other; there's always a strange sensation when they're in close proximity, the universe trying to tell them this is wrong, you both shouldn’t be here, and the two of them stubbornly ignoring it.
“Alto?” Dot’s standing in the doorway, hesitant, hands phasing through the frame. “How are you doing? That was a spectacular game, you know, and you should be very proud of what you did. The voicemail was--”
“Not my fault. I know.” Alto resists the urge to roll their eyes. Dot, always trying to help, even when they don't need it.
“Okay. Good.” They shift awkwardly from foot to foot. “I can leave you alone, if you want. I know you need a good rest. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I'm fine,” Alto says. “Really. I’m… it's been a lot, but now it's going to be less. I'll try to enjoy the break. As much as anyone can enjoy anything while the world's ending.”
“Regardless of enjoyment, no one should be alone at the end of the world.”
“Yeah. I don't plan to be.”
“Good.”
They both lapse into silence after that. Alto can't be bothered to figure out if it's comfortable or awkward. Maybe it's nothing in particular. Maybe it just is .
“Thank you,” Alto says after a small eternity. “I mean, I'm sorry. I mean, this whole time you've been trying so hard to help me, and I haven't always appreciated that.”
“Emphasis on the trying ,” Dot responds without hesitation. “You may have noticed I have no idea what I'm doing half of the time."
"Yeah, I know. I just thought it would be rude to mention." They risk a smile.
Dot's smiling back, just as tentatively. "Please don't hesitate to tell me when I mess up. I will try to do better."
"I think you've been doing okay at this, actually. I mean, I didn't turn out too bad."
"That may have been more in spite of me than because of me."
"Only sometimes." Alto’s still smiling.
Dot laughs, softly. "I suppose I can live with that."
Silence again, for a while. This one is definitely not awkward or uncomfortable, but peaceful, full of potential.
“I get it, now,” Alto finally says. “Why you hate the spotlight so much. I thought -- well, I don't know. I hated being in the light when I couldn’t live up to it, but then I spent so long in the dark that I couldn't imagine not wanting to shine. I thought maybe if I could just start to play well, it would all be okay. Everything you said about fame, and success... I found it hard to believe, and I shouldn't have. You had all this stuff figured out already, and I'm just... behind, as always.”
“Only because it takes time to learn these things. I've been here for twice as many seasons. Of course I've had more opportunities to learn.” Dot pauses. “I did not exactly take advantage of all those opportunities, either. You are learning some things faster than I did.”
Alto cracks a smile. “Yeah, you still haven't even learned how to bat . Come back when you have official records for pitching and hitting.”
“I can assure you, I would not have taken to batting any better than you took to pitching. I do count myself lucky I never had to do that. It would have felt like... a waste of my blessing, and I would not have handled that well.”
“That's kind of what it was like, coming here.”
Dot goes carefully still and quiet; it's rare that Alto talks about where they came from.
“I was made for glolf,” Alto continues. “I was good at it, and I loved it. It was safer than blaseball. Not so dangerous to be a star there. My extra fingers knew exactly what to do out on the course, and then I came here and picked up a blaseball, and it just felt… wrong . Like I couldn't grasp it, in more ways than one. Like all that I was was wasted on this.”
“I am sorry,” Dot says, so quietly Alto can barely hear them. “I never wanted this for you. I did try to stop you from coming here.”
“It's okay,” Alto says, because, really, it almost is. “I’ve got batting now, and I’m good at it. And glolf is... well, it's different. Not as dangerous as blaseball, yeah, but it's... lonely. You don't have a team out there to help you get through it all. If I went back... well, I'd miss the people here more than I ever missed anyone there, I think. Somehow.”
It feels almost like a betrayal to say it, but, well, they've been shown absolutely nothing but kindness here from their teams, even though they haven't always been the best at appreciating it. Or reciprocating.
“I miss being the best, though,” they continue, almost without thinking. The words are just pouring out of them now, faster than any rush of Immateria. “That sounds like a terrible thing to say, but... I felt like I was important, there. I had become a star. Maybe the world didn’t love me, not really, but I always impressed them with what I could do. It was like I mattered . And then I came here and I couldn't do anything right and they expected me to be like you. And I wasn't like you. And I wasn't much like me anymore, either.”
Dot nods. “Fame and success are heavy burdens. We both thought we could shoulder them, and learned the hard way we could not.”
Words are starting to flow out of them too, their usual carefully well-put-together front washing away.
“When I joined this splort, I wanted to be a star pitcher. Then I became one in the blink of an eye, and realized it was not exactly what I wanted, but -- but I didn't know how to go back to who I was before, either, so I kept wanting it anyway, on some level. I was the best for so long, until, gradually, the others started to catch up to me in their own ways. Through parties, and blooddrain, and small blessing effects, little things adding up. Not a huge life-changing moment like mine. Many of them did not even get stolen, despite how well they started performing. And I thought…”
They trail off, trying to figure out how to put it into words.
“This is terrible of me, I suppose, but I had no idea how to handle not being clearly the best anymore. And it's not that I wasn't happy for the others, not that I cared that much about winning, but just... what was the point of it all? There were other ways to become a star pitcher. What the gods did to me was unnecessary, and my skill became less and less unique as time went on, but even then I could never escape. Other names climbed above me on the leaderboard, and still I was the one everybody wanted to steal, because they knew my name first.”
“That's all it ever is to them, isn't it?” Alto agrees. “Just a name. PolkaDot Patterson, living on the idol board forever. It's not about being the best anymore. It's about earning them money. Winning them championships. It's what they expect from PolkaDot Patterson.”
“And still we expect too much from ourselves. I felt like I had to keep outperforming them all, no matter how many stars they gained. Like I was worth nothing, if I could not be the best. Like I had to be the most worth stealing, if they were going to steal me no matter what I did. I was the first blessed, the brightest star of the Discipline Era, but eventually I became just one of many in a huge constellation. And I was happy to not be alone at the top, and sad they had to face this too, but mostly I was…”
Dot hesitates, searching for the right words.
“Lost. And confused. And resentful. For so long I had been told my destiny was to always shine the brightest, and if none of that was true, what had I suffered for, and why did I not even get to stop?”
They unclench their many fists, slowly, blinking at their own hands as if they hadn't even realized what they were doing. “Ah. Sorry. I got a little carried away. You have enough to deal with right now without me unloading all of my old problems onto you.”
“No, that's good,” Alto says, and is surprised to find they mean it. “You get a front-row seat to every crisis I have, but I wasn't there to see you work through a lot of your stuff, so I don't know much about it. You should unleash your frustration more often. Makes you seem more... relatable. Your whole perpetually serene calmness thing kind of drives me crazy sometimes. It’s just another Dot Thing I’m not good at.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, I am not very good at Alto Things.”
Alto grins. “Yeah, it does, actually. At least we suck at different stuff.”
“Together, we are almost one fully functioning person.”
“Or one fully non-functioning squid thing, depending on which way you look at it.”
“True. I suppose the important thing is together .”
Dot’s smiling even more tentatively than usual, so Alto returns the gesture with confidence.
“Yeah. I might not show it a lot of the time, but I really am glad you're here. I couldn't have done this without you."
"Yes, you could have. You're strong, Alto. You push through things that might have made me give up. That is not because of me, but because of you."
"Okay, maybe I could have. But I wouldn't want to."
Dot’s smile grows wider. "I wouldn't want you to, either."
Alto doesn't know what's next. A lot of rest, hopefully. The world continuing to exist in some form or another. Plenty of time spent with their friends and family -- because, yes, they are family now. Whatever might happen, they're glad they don't have to face it alone.
They reach out a hand like they'd done when the two of them were standing so small in front of the great doors of the Hall, a gesture of unity and support, comfort and familiarity, and again, Dot doesn't hesitate to match them.
"Here's to being PolkaDot Patterson," Alto says.
"To being PolkaDot Patterson," Dot replies, echoing them -- and that's it, isn't it? Alto had spent so long trying to not be seen as an echo of Dot that they hadn't realized it might be okay to be echoes of each other, just sometimes. Two distinct people with some notable similarities. There's nothing wrong with that.
Maybe it’s not so bad to be PolkaDot Patterson, after all.