#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!

[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]

[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).

[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.

[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.”

[jaycewithawhy]

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.

[bodyinthebog]

ok here’s something for @blaseballwipamnesty - have ~1k of angst about margarito nava, captain for the boston flowers. i wrote this around four seasons ago, so it’s pretty out-of-date for the canon.

cw: death mention, some body horror, swearing.

/////

There’s so few of them left, the originals. 

Both across the league and on the Flowers, players traded, transferred, incinerated until entire teams are replaced.

It’s been hard for Margarito not to become numb, if xe is honest. Only three Flowers have been in play since the Return, and they’ve all lost so much. 

Ace watched his child be incinerated. Of all the times Margo had to be late.

(Margo never told him this: before the fire connected, Moses had turned to Margo, a hand outstretched. Her mouth was a grimace of pain and terror, muscles clenched and nails tearing into her palms. But her eyes - her eyes were pure static. They were cold even before the flame reached them.)

Margo occasionally tries to talk to fans about the early players - Isaac, Hurley, even Cali - and the response is noncommittal at best. Other times, their faces show confusion, skepticism, maybe humming in feigned curiosity. 

“Oh, yes, Pacheco - wait, don’t you mean the player for the Pies? Poor soul, a massive shame what happened to them.”

Xe wants to grip their shoulders, to shake them until they remember. It’s not yet been twenty years - xe still remembers training with Beck, or working behind the bar whilst Hurley arranged flowers for a celebration.

On the worst nights, when Margo is yet again behind the bar at Margaritoville (always, always, never changing), xe watches the footsteps of Silvaire, or Zesty, and thinks about the ash they are tracking in; remnants from too many games played under an unnatural sun. Ash embedded into sneakers and souls. Shit, xe’s getting poetic in xir old age. 

The Flowers hold the record for the most number of incinerations. Is it luck? Divine hatred? Hell, Margo had even heard of a ‘curse’ on the team back in the early seasons - when Cali and Beck were incinerated and feedbacked within a few months of each other; when three players got incinerated in the same season.

The newer players have mentioned the curse as well - Scores, Salih, Zesty, the others. Even Nagomi Mcdaniel had groused about the “fuckin’ Flowers curse”. Scores had created spreadsheets - spreadsheets - about incineration rates and feedback chances and who knows what else. She had been so proud, and so enthusiastic, when she showed them to Margo, wheelchair skidding around with her computer close to falling off her lap.

It took all Margo had not to snap at her. Her friends were not just numbers.

They can’t be cursed. Who pays enough attention to Boston to care?

/////

The Moss Woman was no help, as usual.

She came to Margo on a summer’s evening, when the air was just beginning to bite with cold and the sky was just barely light. The Flowers had been kicked out of the playoffs yet again, so the team was back in Boston.

(Over in Charleston, a shelled god is descending on a terrified crowd, unexpected and unpracticed opponents standing alone. But that’s another story.)

Xe sat at the edge of a lake in the Garden, xir legs crossed and xir hand dipped in the water - the left one, the one beginning to tinge with green. There was a small flower-bud on the palm of that hand; Margo wondered often what it will become. Xe doesn’t mind these changes, necessarily - the Flowers have always been tied to their namesake, and what’s another step further. Everything returns to the ground, to ash, eventually. At least the Garden is not a possessive god - who knows, they could be the Crabs.

“Margarito.” Her voice came from behind, and above. It emanated from the lake, and the grass xe sat on, and the bud in xir hand. The night air seemed to still suddenly, what little wind there was falling silent.

“Be nice.” Margo muttered in response, head slumped against xir chest.

A gentle laugh. “Darling, I say what I must.”

The next moment, there was a presence on the grass next to xir. Margo didn’t turn xir head, instead looking up, as if trying to find the oncoming stars. 

“What do you seek, Margarito?”

Margo paused for a moment, drawing xir hand up from the lake. “Something’s coming, isn’t it.” There’s a defeated tone in xir voice.

Xe can hear the shrug in the Moss Woman’s voice. “It always is. Always has been.”

A pause. Somewhere in the undergrowth, a bird cawed a final goodnight to the day.

“Why do you let them go?” Margo’s voice cracked involuntarily.

She replied immediately. “I don’t have a choice.” 

“But Cali still lives. I understand why you favour her, yet -”

The Moss Woman laughed, yet again. This time it was bitter, tinged with resignation and resentment. “Margarito, I do not favour her. Our dear lotus is destined for something beyond this garden, I am afraid. Her fate is quite out of my hands.”

As if on cue, a lotus bloomed next to them, pink leaves vibrant in the setting sun. Margo snorted. Trust Cali to be listening.

“The Flowers have never gone this long without an incineration.” Xe said.

“It’s only been three seasons, Margarito.” Her tone was almost mournful.

Margo placed her hands behind xir, leaning back to face the sky. “That’s just it. Three fucking seasons. We shouldn’t have to live in fear.”

/////

They make it longer without any incinerations, surprisingly. The Flowers pass the Grand Siesta in Boston and in peace, players returning to their families. Years pass with the occasional meet-up; the occasional training session. Beck returns for a while - she disappears into the Garden, a vine wrapped around her wrist. When she talks to Margo, their conversations are stilted. Uncertain.

Beck led a team constantly facing incineration. Margarito runs one haunted by it.

Margo remains at the bar, as xe has done for the past decade. 

The Coffee Cup comes as a welcome break, all things considered. Xir team, Macchiato City do moderately well, and it was good to play opposite Jacob for once.

It’s when xe is attempting to call Castillo that something interesting happens. The phone rings for longer than Castillo usually lets it - even if he is not the most engaging speaker, Margo needs to hear a familiar voice. The Garden feels empty.

“Hello? Turner is unavailable at the moment, can I take a message?” A posh, slightly accented voice speaks from the other end of the line.

“Oh - no, it’s alright. Just tell him to call me back.”

“Will do. This is Thomas Dracena speaking, from the Millenials - you’re Margarito Nava, right? From the Flowers?”

Margo laughs. “Yeah, that’s me. Thanks, Thomas.”

“Of course, Margarito. I’ll tell Castillo you called.”

[clemkesh]

My second @blaseballwipamnesty​ song. (And last one I’ll post today): Fifteen Minutes, a song from the perspective of Wyatt Mason IX, aka “Nines,” the Mills’ beloved who was in the first pair to fade into static. Some context is that the Mills lored Nines as being from an alternate universe that was just slightly off from the regular Blaseball universe.

Lyrics below the cut

born in the feedback of a microphone now i’m somewhere that looks a lot like home but these people i see are not the people i know caught in the echo (echo echo)

dressed to the nines i got my hoodie on and my headphones play my fave garages song this place seems alright but yet theres something wrong i don’t belong (i don’t belong)

and so i go oh oh oh got my fifteen minutes of game oh oh oh no one knows me but you all know my name

[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 :)

[charaznablescanontoyota]

“Did you fix the grappling hook on Elephant Gambit?” Derrick asks, sharply.

Shaq blinks. “Yeah, I -”

“Good,” Derrick says. He shifts his grip from Shaq’s collar to their arm, steering them out of Bourbon Lancer’s shadow. “We’re stealing it.”

(or: two mechanics walk into a jaeger.)

anyway this is the pacrim wip that i’ve been picking at for like the past 6 months

[captainbuzzard]

posting this comic for blaseball wip amnesty (i do intend to finish it, eventually)!

an unfinished comic from the grand siesta, about quitter, reflections, vanity, and the PODS (4.5/? pages)