#blaseball wip amnesty

[cryinginblaseball]

Doing the wip thing that @polkadotpatterson did! I don't have that many, but I have a few that need some love.

RULES: Reveal the titles of the documents in your WIP folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!

The Trench

Hobbs in the Hall

Ever so much Salt stuff (okay so this is more than one)

Hobbs picks up Dusty (The Dust Bunny Cynda mentioned)

(I have a few Clorkball things I'm working on too. Most of my attention lately has been on Space Raccoon tbh)

I'm tagging @luckyowl21, @mossy-kit and anyone else who wants to jump on!

[salthien]

when all was said and done, Coronation ended up leaving kind of a bad taste in my mouth, so I didn't really plan to make anything further for blball and especially not for Coronation. that being said, I did have some stuff I kind of liked from before it broke bad, so on request here's a kind-of wip amnesty for one of them.

hands, 1.4k. gen. blaseball does not leave much time for leisure, especially for its captains. elip dean of the hades tigers makes do with what they can get.

“have you thought about picking up a hobby?”

elip’s attention is slow to leave their notebook, still scribbling postgame notes at one of the empty clubhouse tables. their head lifts, eventually, then tilts, one brow arching.

“something small,” mehdi elaborates. “to keep your hands busy.”

they maintain the look, brows furrowing in a challenge.

“you fidget, eli. a lot.” a pause, and mehdi lifts a palm defensively. “don’t look at me like that. i just think it would be good for you. you don’t need to be in captain mode all the time.”

elip ducks their ears as if admonished, but their eyes are smiling as they tip their head in another unspoken question.

“you’ve got options. just something to keep your hands busy - i wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve got needles and yarn stashed away around here somewhere, or beads. paper’s not hard to come by either.”

something clicks, then, and elip’s eyes go wide as they nod excitedly.

----

it starts like this: little paper animals, folded and strewn about the clubhouse. they are imperfect; the white underside of the bright squares peeks out around uneven folds on cranes with wings that won’t sit right, crabs with lopsided pincers, frogs with short bodies and too-long legs.

there have been a few casualties, too, accidentally swept to the floor and caught by wayward heels. elip trashes the crushed ones as readily as anyone else.

“oh– shit.” vela says, prying a bright yellow crane from her cleat one day. “cap, you gotta be more careful with these little guys.”

elip looks across the dugout, shrugs once. later, though, they see vela tuck the crane under a magnet in her locker, its crumpled wing carefully smoothed out. it fills them with a warmth they can’t name long after they’ve left the stadium.

----

they don’t limit themself to paper. as the season goes on, elip swaps craft paper for colored twine, carrying beads in a hidden pocket of their skirt. despite mehdi’s protests, they unwind the first three lumpy, uneven bracelets they make to save material - no use being wasteful.

the fourth, elip presents to stevie with little fanfare. they press it into his hand - a simple thing, pale blue twine, small green beads strung into the weave - as he comes in from striking out in the top of the ninth.

“for me?” he asks, even as elip is beginning to step away. they nod, only half-looking at him, but pause as the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkle with a smile.

“captain dean, you’re too kind.”

they notice it after that sometimes, the twine fastened snugly beneath his glove. it makes them smile no matter how far they’re down on the scoreboard.

----

in the off-season, they throw themself even further into mehdi’s suggestion, whenever training and their duties as captain allow for it. one day in late summer, amaya arrives at the clubhouse to elip, awaiting them expectantly, hands behind their back and eyes bright.

“morning to you too, elle.”

when elip finally reveals their gift on outstretched palms, amaya pauses, surprised, her eyes flickering from elip’s face to the painted clay pieces cradled in their hands.

“you made these?” elip answers their question with a firm nod and lifts the little clay armaments further, gesturing to amaya with both palms.

“seriously–? they’re so cute, are you sure?”

elip rolls their eyes exaggeratedly, and amaya finally acquiesces, taking the miniature silver-and-rose painted sword and shield from their palms with a kind of fond reverence that elip won’t soon forget.

----

by the beginning of season 2, more gifts have found their way into the hands of their team, each stripe carrying a token from their captain’s creative spree. elip abandons their more complex endeavors as the season begins and they turn their focus to the game.

they wonder, perhaps too much at first, about wandering zephyr - cursed and, they hope, making the best of it. he seems happy, no matter what color jersey he wears when they see clips of him online, and that’s what matters.

but pragmatism is the name of the game, especially as players start going up in flames: they stop letting themself worry if he misses Hades, unsure if a yes or a no would bring them more peace.

when they catch one of his interviews, scrounging for news on the rest of the league as much as they dare, they linger on it just enough to notice the beaded corner of an ash-gray keychain hanging out of his pocket. a lump rises in their throat, bittersweet.

----

you only keep what you had on you when you died, say the long-dead as they fill the hall of flame with space and color and depth. 

there are ways of contacting the living, but not reliably. 

we’re here for you, they offer, but you’ll have to get used to this. chances are you’ll be here a very long time.

leandra doesn’t mind. she’d heard the stories of the hall and still chosen it willingly the day she’d taken the field after mondegreen’s incineration. that does not make the physical adjustment any easier - the dampness, the way her fur clings to her flanks, the way her chest aches for breath that won’t come - but she’s made her peace with that, too.

what does ease her mind is the scrap of maroon cloth she discovers in her breast pocket, surfacing a memory - elip, closing it into her hands the morning of day 79. sewn into it is a sun, pale yellow and filled in with hasty stitches. the captain had not been clear what it was for, only that she was meant to have it. they’d been quite insistent.

leandra finds herself glad for it now, running her thumb gently over the stitchwork. it is, if nothing else, an affirmation of her decision. she cannot imagine elip in the dark of the trench.

----

they don’t talk, much. derrick is fine with that. the silence is comfortingly familiar, and elip seems equally unbothered by it. they commiserate over bad games, elip might ask a question or two about the hall or about derrick himself, but mostly they seem happy to simply have him around as quiet company while they read or study games or make things, sequestered for a handful of hours in elip’s hades flat or derrick’s tiny new apartment.

on one occasion - post-finals, when elip’s in charleston for vela’s memorial - they bring a bright sheaf of paper and seat themself on the floor with it, one cowled ear tipped toward where he sits on the couch. it’s a kind of quiet intensity he hasn’t seen from them much.

aren’t those good luck? he asks in sign, the quiet too comfortable to break with his voice - it's easier, sometimes, and elip's fluency in the common languages of the league makes up for his spotty hall-earned education. elip looks up between cranes, a brightly-colored row of them lined up in a semicircle on the rug. elip's ears tip back in confusion, and derrick repeats himself.

their expression doesn’t change; if anything, they grow more confused.

“those’re good luck, right?” he says, out loud this time, and the understanding that dawns over their face is quickly replaced by amusement, their shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

lucky, they sign with a smile, middle finger lifting off their chin, and derrick realizes his mistake before their hand can even make it back to their face to demonstrate what he’d said instead.

“y’know– fuck it. maybe i do want to know if they taste good.” he grouses with a lopsided smile, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. once elip’s laughter subsides, they nod, signing lucky again as they set the newest crane with its fellows.

“gonna need a lot more cranes than that to help either of us, i think.”

elip’s ear flicks dismissively beneath their tichel, and they pull another piece of paper from the sheaf to their careful creases anew.

derrick doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes later to find his apartment empty. the only evidence of elip’s departure is a text comprised entirely of emojis - happy face, shushing face, waving hand, sleeping face - and a small navy blue crane they’ve left in his upturned palms. he smiles faintly, leans to set it on the side table and only jumps a little bit when something crunches softly behind him.

he starts upright, turning halfway, but there’s nothing behind him except the back of the couch and another crane. a third falls into his lap with his movement, and he connects the dots at last, pulls the collar of his sweater around to find that elip has in fact filled his hood with yet more palm-sized paper birds.

derrick doesn’t believe in luck, really – but he gathers the little pile of birds onto the old side table and carefully slides the blue one into his phone case for good measure.

[taketheringtolohac]

So since blaseball is ending, I’ve officially decided to amnesty all of my blaseball related WIPs given the fact that blaseball is incredibly difficult to learn about when it isn’t actually happening.

The first in my series of amnesty fics is about Parker being a clone specifically designed to be “better” versions of himself that his mother (the Coin) created of him so that he would be more efficient and also so that she could manipulate his memories to forget that she was ever his mother. Parker IIIII finds out about this after starting to experience flashbacks when Parker MacMillian is revealed in the Library’s Prehistory for the first time and discovers a series of records related to the cloning experiment in a classified section of Blaseball HQ. You can read it here!

[polkadotpatterson]

I was tagged in this wip meme by @leonstamatis! I’m literally in the middle of putting together a wip amnesty so I’m gonna leave out the ones yall are about to see anyway lol

RULES: Reveal the titles of the documents in your WIP folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!

a lot of these are definitely not final titles! I’m limiting this to just my blaseball wips bc that’s already So Many. help

abner and parker fight in an arby’s parking lot

all of the eyes on the pitcher throwing

alston and cedric

dust bunny

dust to dust

Kiki Familia 3

Milky Way Wanderers

my home is in your hands

SALT SALT SALT SALT

semicentennial

simon’s quest

star-crossed

the streets in light

YEAH COFFEE

your name is polkadot patterson

ziwagenia

I am not tagging sixteen people so if you want to do this just go for it lol

[natbplease]

happy birthday blaseball i did a wip amnesty

[captainbuzzard]

posting another unfinished comic for blaseball WIP amnesty (which i also intend to work on. eventually), featuring jessica telephone, a voicemail, loneliness, elsewhere, and an alternation (7/? pages)

Script, continued

“I never wanted this.”

“Everything went so wrong without me noticing “

“Hell I don’t even feel like a person anymore, just a vessel to be shaped by the desires of the fans.”

...

“Hah.”

“Who am I kidding,”

“Calling the number of some dead stranger with my brother’s face doesn’t help anyone.”

“I think this might the last time I call.”

[elsewhere nonentity: “the last time?”]

“Bye, Seb.”

[elsewhere voicemail: “END OF MESSAGE.”]

[*beep*]

[the nonentity looks at the machine in silence. Picks it up, rattles it. Throws it to one side in frustration? Desperation? The view zooms out and the nonentity is small and alone.]

[Then some junk about jess going elsewhere, them meeting, and making a deal where the nonentiity takes jess’s name and face and everything. It’ll be a whole Thing]

[queen-eevee]

WIP for @blaseballwipamnesty

This is a sea shanty I started writing for the Hades Tigers back in January! Inspired (and partially written) by Tam (@leonstamatis) and their prompt fic here: X

Lyrics:

Across the river to Hades go, Hey, oh, the ferryman knows. Where Minos and Aeacus judge your soul, Hey, oh, the ferryman knows. The mist is thick on your cold skin, Cerberus watches you rolling in, Across the river to Hades go, Hey, oh, the ferryman knows.

Through the fog you see the town (Hey, oh, the ferryman knows.) With no way in and no way around, Hey, oh, the ferryman knows. A watery bridge between life and death: To find your peace you must lose your breath. Across the river to Hades go, Hey, oh, the ferryman knows.

[waveridden]

iiiiiiiit’s WIP amnesty so here’s a weird one for you!

When I was ~14, I watched a TV show called Awake, about a guy who was in a car accident with his wife and son and then lived in a dual reality: one where his wife survived, and one where his son survived. Being 14, I decided this was cool as shit, and every few years I try to write an AU based on it. It was my Grand Siesta project and I never finished it, but I still like a lot of it.

So! Here is a Tillman/Mike/Declan Awake AU, about 6k (too long to just post on Tumblr, too messy to put on Ao3, so it’s just a Google doc). The idea is that there was a timeline split in the S10 elections. In one timeline, as in canon, Mike retreated to the shadows; in the other, Tillman was recalled to the void. Declan is flipping between the two realities.

Content warnings apply for death/unreality as you might expect, as well as: swearing, drinking, casual homophobia, and vague sexual references (nothing that you wouldn’t see in, like, a teen comedy).

[impernaway]

count your blessings

Posted for the Blaseball WIP Amenesty, something I started a long line time ago and never finished. The Seattle Garages do a necromancy, together. All of them remember how it plays out slightly differently. There is no way on gods green earth I will ever actually finish this to a point it goes on Ao3.

content warnings for memory weirdness, memory loss, and some implied violence.

They’d done it as a team.

The choice to actually go ahead and do it had been the furthest thing from easy. It’s one to say fight Gods, fight all the Gods, but then the Talkers came forward and gave them a choice and a plan. A chance to actually do it. Ron had been against it from the start, and Malik had looked uneasy as they picked over the details, but Teddy remembers how Alison had sat up straight and listened to the whole plan, and how Tot and Luis had looked at each other in a way that said everything it needed to but in a way only the two of them ever understood. The team had pulled the whole thing apart piece by piece, bickering and arguing and talking, but they all had looked at him at the end.

Theodore Duende flipped a coin and held it in his hand. He knew the second he flipped it which way it was going to get called.

“First in, first out, right? It’s the fairest way we can do it. And if anybody’s going in for her, it’s going to be us.”

Fourteen of them made a choice. Fourteen of them, together, agreed to make a choice. Blessings and idolatry and necromancy: Only so much of it was in their hands. But they chose, together, to try anyway.

---

If you asked Ron how it went, he’d tell you something like this:

The Void is a real messed up place. The second the van had crossed the barrier the road below them had bucked and kicked, and soon they weren’t on a road at all. Any kind of chatter had died as the pressure grew. And the pressure had grown, and grown, and soon the van had stopped and they’d known that whatever they did now, they’d be doing on foot. 

Arturo had led the way forward, Teddy and Ron behind him. Ron remembers Allison holding his hand, and behind her holding her other one had been Mike. The chain had carried on, Tot and Luis together at the back, and then coming back up to Teddy again. The sky had churned in colours Ron doesn’t remember. It’s less a circle of them and more a diamond, all hand in hand, and - 

----

- and Allison remembered the way Mike had shifted uneasily whilst re-tuning his guitar yet again, how they’d all paced the stage back and forth during setup. The stage had been there waiting for them when they arrived inside this fucked up cave, but there wasn’t any sign of anything else. If she ignored the way her eyes swam if she tried to look too far into the dark, she could almost fool herself into thinking this was just a gig. A real weird gig. In the middle of a fucking cave. To try and bring their dead friend back to life. It was dark as shit but she could still see, and when she’d looked over she’d caught Oli’s eye and - 

---

- and Oli’s lungs had burned and heaved as he’d tried his best to keep up with the others. The sand underfoot had been dark blue and soft, the kind that’s impossible to run on, but they’d all been trying anyway. Sure, the gate behind them was open, but how long was it gonna be open for? Even if they’d won the right to do this by blessing, that hadn’t meant anything. The Gods don’t play by the rules they set down. There was no guarantee they’d actually let them take her home. There was no guarantee that they were gonna let them go home either. All he’d been able to do was press close and stick with Cedric and Greer -

---

- Greer couldn’t remember a dang thing about the river they’d all wound up in, save maybe it was a bitch to swim up and that a bunch of fish had been swimming past the other way. He’d turned his head to watch one, and - 

---

- and Henry, don’t get him wrong, Henry had not been scared, not in the slightest. He is the champion and most valuable pitcher on the Seattle Garages, and he is not scared that easily. There hadn’t been anything to be afraid of down there. Just one long stone hallway which bent around a bit and which had also been full of all the ghosts of dead people who the Umpires had set on fire, and also Jaylen who had also been set on fire but not by the Umpires. Not that Henry had ever actually met her. She died, and then she’d been replaced by Derrick who had also died, and Henry hadn’t met him either but then he died and Henry got signed on, so when you think about it Jaylen dying had kind of done the team a whole favour because it had let him join them and grace them with his skill. He definitely hadn’t seen somebody watching them. He absolutely had not made eye contact with the ghost before looking away to look at -

---

- Lang can’t sit still whilst he remembers it, how they’d sent Mike away on his own whilst they’d stood vigil at the bending point of reality. They’d flexed their plane of existence until it had buckled and pressed against the next one along. It had been their collective duty to stand and maintain the bridge by whatever means they could until Mike came back, be it empty handed or no. The words would stick in his mouth when he tried to call them up, but his hands were not trapped by the things he remembered. He sketches the shapes with his fingers as best as he can, pointing to where they’d all been, and he lets the memory plays out, and he speaks of what he recalls -

---

- but try as ey might Farrel’s memories are a jumble. Ey remember being there, but ey don’t remember it being eir that was there. Ey were a body that wasn’t just eir body, ey were everybody, all fourteen of them moving as one body and one mind to retrieve a part of the team that was needed back. The Seattle Garages had moved with a purpose. They’d scooped her still form up in their arms and started the long climb back out, and -

----

- and on the way out, Cedric remembered, they’d had to take it in turns to carry the bass guitar that was Jaylen. Heavy fuckin’ piece of kit, that. But at some stage he’d turned around and she’d been there with a battered acoustic one slung across her back, striding forward like nothing could touch her still, and none of them had tried. And that’d been that.

---

Arturo remembers it all, perfectly. They remember the sight of her hands around his neck.

They wish they didn’t.

[candidateofloyalty]

Wait For That Familiar Pull

As someone who is incapable of committing to an idea for longer than a week at a time, @blaseballwipamnesty is my kind of event. Anyway, you remember the Sebastian Telephone Funko Pop plan to end death? Yeah.

Sebastian gets one day to get used to the state of things. Really, that's generous for the blaseball gods - he's seen incinerations, he knows the new players take their place on the team in the middle of a game. Play can never stop.

Of course, new players just have to adjust to the inherent uncertainty of blaseball. Sebastian, however, gets hit with several certainties back to back: first, that his memories aren't really his. Second, that he'll be part of the team for 27 days - longer if they reach the postseason, but judging by Jan's expression as this whole mess is explained, they're not reaching the postseason. At least then he'll have some time to relax.

Assuming, of course, that he makes it to the postseason. Niq is very apologetic looking as she explains the third pillar of his new life, but even before she says anything, Sebastian knows. He can feel the instability in his bones (does he have bones, or is he plastic all the way through?), has felt the way it sings to rogue umpires (he hasn't, all he's felt starts fifteen minutes ago when he opened his eyes as the Georgias lifted the lid off his box), knows there is an axe hanging over his head (and maybe everything else about him is fake but this knowledge is real and tangible).

To her credit, Niq pushes past the solemnity if not with grace then with grim determination. She explains about Atlantis, the Georgias' rapid descent from blaseball2 and their subsequent research missions. Sebastian tries to crack a joke about how he'll already fit in, gesturing to the tentacles the Monitor crowned the original Sebastian with. The Georgias smile politely, as if they'd all agreed to humor him. He'd be hurt if he thought making friends would matter for him.

When the explanation is finished, Flattery asks if he has any questions, but their attention is already somewhere else. Sebastian decides it's not worth trying to reclaim it.

Besides, he's not sure he really wants the answer to his most pressing question. The last of his memories of Jessica is her brainwashed by the Shelled One. The Georgias seemed unbothered about the playoffs, so the Shelled One has probably been taken care of, but "taken care of" can mean a lot of things in blaseball.

He's got enough to deal with, staring down his own impending doom for the not-third time. He can't worry about his sister too. (She's not his sister anyway, not even the original Sebastian's sister because that Sebastian was himself an alternate of the first Sebastian to set foot on the Steakhouse grounds, but technicalities matter less than they should when everything is wrong anyway, and how many of him could the game possibly consume before it was satisfied?)

The Georgias move on to discussing the rest of their haul from the Gift Shop. Sebastian tries to follow along, but he doesn't know enough about the current state of the league for it to mean much. He doesn't think anyone will notice his silence, though. They won't have time to consider it unusual for him.

[leonstamatis]

(another one for @blaseballwipamnesty - i started a 12x100 for beck whitney/silvaire roadhouse ages ago and just never finished it because of. well. you know. here’s five scenes, written in second person from beck’s POV - that style choice is influenced heavily by @fourteenthidol‘s dreamyjaylen fics, so go check those out!)

--

it is uncomfortable, knowing things have grown beyond you. neither new nor unfamiliar, but nonetheless shifting thing just behind your lips, bitter on your tongue and gritty on your teeth.

the garden you knew didn’t know itself quite so well. the garden you knew did not cling so tightly, did not lace around your fingers. even the sun is different now; you’ve left your broad-brimmed hat at home, not for the first time.

one place stays the same. a lotus sitting pleasantly by a pond, pink petals spread out like an umbrella. you find your way there, book in hand.

--

she is standing in your spot.

but no, not quite. you want to laugh at your own indignation. as if any part of this place is still yours, as if you have any more a right to enjoy it than she does.

she turns to spot you and tips her hat. the gesture is so practiced, so at ease, that you find yourself curtseying out of old, forgotten habit, hands reaching for petticoats that aren’t there.

when you look up, she has one eyebrow raised, the corner of her mouth quirked upward. you purse your lips to halt your smile.

--

her steady hands shine the metal of her pistol with ease, though you both know she’s had no reason to use it. there’s a difference, you think, between habits done out of necessity and those done for comfort.

her loose linen shirt reminds you of clothes you stole from your father, the way you twisted your hair into braids and tucked them under a cap. for you, it was a costume, ill-fitting but better for roughhousing; for her, it is a second skin she wears easily.

her fingers are quick, practiced. when you look up, dark eyes meet yours easily.

--

you tumble through the steps of a dance no one else knows, and your feet thumping the wood of the shed reminds you of things you’ve learned not to think about. nights spent twirling around in a barn, in a tavern, long enough ago that the years don’t merit counting.

with your father and your mother and a village that felt like family, you would dance until the wicks burned too low to continue on.

now, the lights don’t rely on wicks. you can walk her through every step well into the early morning, and she can follow dutifully after.

--

there is a familiarity to the debt. the revival, the cost; these are familiar to you, explained as you woke from what felt like a dream and found yourself in a life where your teeth want things your mind rebelled against.

the same teeth dig into your lip now as you press a hand against the pulsing, dark-bright bruise on your elbow. smoke seeps between your fingers and through it you can see her watching. your family, her team, stands stunned.

the calendar will remind you later that you’re safe, that things will mend. her lips will do the same.

[qaisdogwalker]

to kick off the blaseblog. wip for @blaseballwipamnesty! have you had your daily theseusthought today yet. have you considered the quietly devastating tragedy of an alternate trust. have you ruminated over one (1) sam scandal and two (2) polkadot pattersons as of late. well! presenting

ALTERNATE ELEGY

But here’s what you leave behind: your vessel, thirty-oared and haughty. Suppose this boat is more salient than you are. It waits in the harbour for generations, moored and majestic and mouldering from the saltwater. But this ship, the celebrity, is adored by your Athenian populace, and will not rot on their watch. They pull out the planks that have gone putrid. It’s their state galley, and it has to be seaworthy every year. It has to play ball.

Sailcloth crumbles, the people raise new colours; termites establish apartment complexes in the mast, Athens carves new mizzens. Good players bleed from serrated wounds, popular opinion reaches for better players; fields become funeral pyres in instants, new faces rise from the cinders. Everything is turning, changing.

Sam is no stranger to the transition. The new timber and the growing pains. And under it all that seizing, exhilarating terror, like a car ride to a theme park, like a blindfolded trek to the gallows, like nothing in between. When their first dose of T went into their thigh they wept until their roommate told them, tenderly, to shut up. Sam couldn’t help it. They went into a room without an ongoing videocall interview and wept some more.

They won’t forgive Blaseball, but they’re alike, in a way, Sam and their sport.

Alto is at peace. Alto is so, so serene. Alto has pitched only one fit since the switch, just one fit, witnessed by two people total, and still nobody has minted them a gold medal for their moderation. Actually, Alto might pitch another fit soon, in the near future, but, really, they haven’t decided yet.

Even the convenience stores aren’t exempt: they wander for so long that Kirchner abandons them to go across the street for churros. Alto laps the aisles alone. It’s the same liminal white light, a bored person behind the till like any other, but Alto cannot for the life of them find a single can of Poolclog Energy. And, look, Alto’s no soda gastronomist. Poolclog is not niche. “That sounds disgusting,” Kirchner might have said, but everyone and their parents drinks Poolclog. Never mind that the name evokes gurgling drains and mouthfuls of chlorine.

Alto peers into the freezer shelves for what feels like the hundredth time. The names on the drinks are unfamiliar, with logos that leer back at them like a language they haven’t learned yet. Seasons in the Shadows have left this world alien to them, a place just as unsettling as the sepulchral hotel. Alto slid into it thrashing and hasn’t stopped since.

They don’t know if they prefer the hallways and the murk to real life. Some of the shadowed players live in the rooms like wrapping themselves in absolution. Others are hungry to get out. Alto has never been in the Shadows of their original world, and won’t ever get the chance to, so they don’t have anything to compare these Shadows with, not in the same way they hold the two leagues side by side and scrutinise every discrepancy. They just appreciated the mints on their pillow, even if they tasted like dust. Maybe unseen things howled when they tried to sleep, but the bright world has its own shortcomings.

They accept that their favourite sports soda exists only in the fever dream of where they’re from and move to the end of the aisle. Out in the street, through the glass, the foreign night gleams.

They’re relieved to be alone, actually; Zoey Kirchner is a lovely heel and getting dumped from the postseason doesn’t make hir any nicer. Usually Alto can keep up with hir, something that surprised hir when they first talked back, but Alto thinks buying churros is exactly where they like Kirchner to be at the moment, rather than in speaking vicinity. The acid is refreshing until it’s not. Plus, Alto needs space to brood for themself.

How do you mourn something that is only dead to you? When the cashier at the convenience store, after you ask them if they stock your favourite soda, says, What? Do you put down your friendships when people you knew better than yourself look through you like they haven’t known you a day in their life? For the sake of themself, Alto will not miss the other place; like a good carpenter, they’ve cleft a line down the grain of their time and cut it away from the part of them with the pain receptors. Alto is at peace. They haven’t heard their favourite album in a long time, because the band that made it never formed. C’est la fucking vie.

They pick a chocolate bar and a drink that looks like something they’d like and pay. They’ve had their time to think. Waiting for Kirchner on the sidewalk, they pop the tab on the can and sip.

The one tantrum they threw was an anomaly, really, they swear. They’re decent most of the time. Serene. Their two witnesses have been tacitly sworn to silence, and, in Core fashion, the damage dealt has been serviced. But the Shadows were sedation for Alto, and being pulled out sharpened everything to a point; they’re sure there was one swing of the bat that had shattered something fragile inside them. Practice makes perfect makes panic. It was like a switch flipped, two nerve endings touched to strike a power surge of feelings. One second they were going through the motions of batting drills. The next they were right by the mechanical spitter, bat raised. They didn’t stop hitting until the automatic-feed pitching machine was in pieces.

A single spark flew from the mangled metal. Behind Alto, Adelaide gaped. Once, early in their time, someone had told Alto that they loved the facade, but were waiting for the day when Alto snapped and embraced crimes. The time had clearly arrived. Alto, breathing hard, said without turning around, “I’ll fix this.”

Maybe they should have taken a picture for Evelton. Alto’s sure they would have appreciated it. They put it back together too fast to snap a shot; Jolene handed them the wrenches with palpable trepidation.

Zoey reappears, holding two churros in paper sleeves, and crosses the street without looking out either way. A car screeches to a stop to avoid running hir down. Alto drinks long and wishes they were drinking something else.

[thesunshinydays]

[insert blaseball fic title here]

a wip for @blaseballwipamnesty about lenny marijuana learning how to deal with splort related anxiety before her first game, all as part of my scheme to put more real sports things into blaseball content. theres a lot more that i want to add to this including scenes from the game itself, but i just havent gotten around to it yet. also, this is @waveridden ‘s sister!lenny because thats my favorite lenny. overall id say it isnt even halfway done, though i do intend on finishing it at some point

i put it under a readmore because it needs content warning for food and a very frank discussion of dealing with a nervous stomach

“Okay so, I’m not nervous,” Lenny says, feeling like she might throw up at any moment. She’s looking down at what would normally be a perfectly appetizing waffle.  It has a chunk cut out, separated from the rest with a fork stuck in it.  She had tried to take a bite.  She really had.  But the idea of actually having to eat it was making her even more nauseous, so she is staring at it instead, as if that will let her passively absorb the calories she needs to pitch her first real game out of the shadows.  She is pointedly *not* looking at Mike Townsend sitting across from her as she continues speaking: “But let’s say, hypothetically, I know someone who is pitching their first game today and is nervous about it.  What advice would you suggest I pass along to them?”

“Well, first,” Mike says, “it’s normal to be nervous, so your friend shouldn’t feel bad about that.  Any athlete that says they’ve never been nervous for a competition is a liar.”

“Really? I’ve never been nervous, ever,” Lenny lies.

“Oh, obviously. But for your friend: the secret to maximizing personal performance isn’t about not feeling anxious, it’s about learning how to work with that anxiety in a productive way and knowing that you can perform your best even while nervous,” Mike rattles off rotely.

“Why does this sound familiar?” Lenny asks.

“Because it’s in the presentation that the splort psychologist gives during every preseason training camp, which, I might add, your friend would know if she didn’t, hm, I don’t know, fall asleep in the middle of it,” he says.

“At least I don’t know it word for word,” she snaps back.

“I thought it was your friend who needed advice?” Mike looks a little smug and Lenny kicks him lightly under the table in retaliation. He laughs.

“Are you gonna give me real advice or what?” Lenny asks. She tried to make it sound biting or sarcastic, but she’s not sure it worked. She looks down again at her waffle chunk and pushes it around the plate. Teddy had worked hard to talk the hotel manager into opening up the waffle station at around four in the afternoon for the team, since it was normally reserved for complimentary breakfasts.  She knew this wasn’t the team’s standard operating procedure. Normally, they’d go wherever they wanted for lunch, but Teddy had suggested this today instead. She feels shitty having to let the effort go to waste. She looks back up at Mike and says, “Quit it with the stupid psycho babble and give me something actionable, I feel like I’m gonna hurl.” 

“Well first off, milk is the wrong choice,” he says as he takes her barely touched glass of whole milk and pushes his untouched glass of orange juice toward her. 

He thought something like this might happen and got the juice for me in the first place, that fucking sneak, Lenny realizes.

“Second,” Mike says, ”stop trying to force yourself to eat if you feel like you can’t. It’s better to snack throughout the day if your stomach won’t settle than to eat a bunch at once. The ideal would be dried fruit and jerky so that you get carbs and protein to give you energy in the moment and through the course of the game, but we can make trail mix work.”

“Can’t, peanut allergy,” Lenny says.

“We can get you one with granola and almonds. Also, if you really, really can’t eat during the game, at least make sure you’re drinking a sports drink. It’s a lot of sugar, but it’s better than nothing and will keep you hydrated. Also, if you’ve recently had a lot of dairy, you might think about taking a lactaid.”

Lenny squints at him. “Those pills for lactose intolerant people? But I’m not--”

Mike cuts her off before she can finish. “I know, but it might help digestion go smoother and faster anyway, or at least placebo effect you into thinking it’s working.” 

“Okay, I was giving you shit earlier but this is actually really helpful.”  Lenny’s impressed. Somewhere along the line she had starting thinking of Mike as her weird mom friend -- her mind briefly supplies “adopted brother” but she stomps on that line of thinking before she can let herself analyze it -- and had forgotten that he was also one of the most famous (or infamous) pitchers in the ILB with half a dozen or so seasons of experience.

“My stomach isn’t quite as bad as yours, but I did used to get really nervous for games,” he admits.

“Used to? What changed? I thought you said anyone who says they never get nervous is a liar?” she asks.

“It’s not like I never get nervous, it’s just that… after enough games you start to get used to being nervous. That and well, after everything that’s happened, my perspective has shifted.” He gives a small shrug and looks past her out a window.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She knows she shouldn’t even have to ask. She asks anyway.

“The only games I get really, really nervous for anymore are eclipse games,” Mike says, still looking away, “‘Cause how I perform determines how long we stay on the field.”

[taketheringtolohac]

i polished something up for @blaseballwipamnesty ! it’s about PDZ and Jessica Telephone and hating each other, and Jessica Telephone after she lands on The Breath Mints and being treated like she’s irrelevant and like she’s in rehab. JT does not like this. PDZ does not like how much of a bitch she is and how she thinks she can treat people however she wants because of it. They are not friends. you can read the fic here!

[polkadotpatterson]

Finally put together another wip amnesty! Here's a variety of Talkers snippets :)

[crowtwink]

Homecoming (WIP)

Summary: Jacoby Podcast attempts to come to terms with the Smaht Siblings and time away from Baltimore Characters: Jacoby Podcast (jhe/jhur), Lorcan Smaht (ey/em), Trinity Smaht (ae/aer) Rating: T (references to alcohol and Blaseball-typical trauma) Notes: A little unpolished fic for Blaseball WIP Amnesty. I wrote this back in... the siesta after season 17 I think? It’s set during season 17 anyway. I meant to go back and polish it up to publishable standards, but Blaseball moved on, players changed teams, and that never happened. Thanks to the creators of @blaseballwipamnesty for giving me an excuse to publish it in it’s current state, because I do love a lot of things I wrote here. --

Lorcan is currently holding two margaritas, because ey are a reasonable person who doesn’t try to hold more drinks than ey have hands, Trin.

The fact that ey’re holding both drinks in the same hand because ey’ve been pitching with the other is irrelevant.

The aforementioned sibling is showing off aer sweet new gloves to anyone on either team who makes the mistake of not avoiding eye contact. It’s hilarious watching Worms players try to politely exit conversation with the overly friendly and completely tactless batter who managed to score half the runs against them this past game.

As such, Lorcan can be forgiven for not noticing Jacoby Podcast approaching until the wiry little pitcher is standing right next to em. Jhe’s scowling – Lorcan has no clue why because yeah Jacoby’s team might have lost this last game, but jhe pitched a hell of a game against them two days ago.

“Podcast!” Lorcan greets jhur. “Up high!”

See, it’s a good thing ey’s holding both margaritas in one hand.

Jacoby eyes the attempted high five with a suspicious look. Belatedly, Lorcan remembers that jhe’s kinda new at the whole “being human” thing.

“Trin!” ey shouts, “Up high!”

Trinity bolts across the field – leaving a relieved-looking Parker Meng suddenly free – to slam aer hand against Lorcan’s with the force of a bullet train.

“See? That’s a high five!”

“I know what a high five is, Smaht,” Jacoby tells em icily.

“Lorc, you’re hogging the drinks,” Trinity stage whispers.

“Oh! Duh!” Deftly, Lorcan plops one of eir drinks into the hands of a very confused Jacoby. “Help yourself! I dunno what’s in these, but they make me feel amazing!”

Jacoby still looks suspicious, but jhe does drink from the ridiculous curly straw so Lorcan counts it as a win.

“So how’s Ohio treating you?” Trin asks, trying to find the best angle for a selfie with aer new gloves.

“It’s fine. Great.”

“Great, huh? They gonna steal you from us?” Lorcan asks.

“Already happened.”

“Yeah, but not, like, permanently. You’re coming back in a season or so, right?” Trinity remarks. “You know the guys want you back.”

Jacoby’s eyes dart to the rest of the Crabs. Jhe looks homesick, Lorcan thinks.

“Look, if you like Ohio that much, no one will judge you if you stay. Or if you want to go gallivanting around the rest of the league. But if you do come back, I look forward to playing with you.”

Trin ruffles eir hair, and Lorcan briefly sees red at the reminder that eir sibling is so ungodly tall.

“When did my baby sib get so wise?” ae croons.

“You’re three minutes older than me, Trin.”

“Tiny baby. So smol. Infant.”

Lorcan laughs and aims a friendly punch at aer shoulder. Ae ducks out of the way and catches em in a headlock.

Lorcan shrieks and almost spills eir drink.

In the excitement, neither sibling notices Jacoby slipping away.

--

The Smahts aren’t a part of the Baltimore Jacoby remembers. The Crabs jhe knew had been sullen and angry, hurting from the scars of their failed fight against the Shelled one and their time spent Up. Even when Logan had joined them for a season, he’d never quite broke through that prickly exterior. But Kennedy doesn’t flinch at the first pitch anymore, even if she seems to be joined by literal ghosts more often than not. Pedro has returned from their times in Elsewhere with a gleam in his eyes that Jacoby doesn’t remember. Bertie catches a ball Lorcan aims at him with a grin instead of barely concealed fear.

Baltimore’s changed in the time Jacoby’s been gone.