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Morrow is still riding the high of getting a home run in their last game when they get the news. Their new teammates are still coming off the field, disappointed about their loss, but not devastated. They’re chatting easily, exchanging quips and praise. Morrow is in the dugout, not wanting to intrude. They open their phone, scrolling quickly through the scores to find the information about the Spies game. They check every time, still.
Morrow can feel their heart sink to the bottom of their chest as they read the small text on their screen.
Theodore Holloway, excellent hitter, excellent spy and original lineup player for the Houston Spies, was incinerated by a rogue umpire.
Teddy, someone Morrow would consider one of their closest friends, is dead.
They don’t even know where they’re going when they telekinetically hurl their phone into a locker and storm out of the locker room.
It’s not like they can get to Miami to see the team. It’s not like they can go anywhere, or do anything, to stop this. They’ve never been able to do anything to stop anything. The world is desperately out of their control, and everything feels like it’s blurring together. That might be the tears welling up in their eyes, or they might be burning something. Morrow doesn’t know. Morrow doesn’t care.
If they were in Houston, they might have gone to Marco. Might have asked about necromancy, just to be turned down, just to start an argument, just to let the emotion out somehow, and to be brought from anger to shared grief. Or maybe to Alexandria. Alex knew how to let things out, they seemed to understand what Morrow needed when they showed up and wanted to break shit.
Back home the Spies probably have each other, they know how each other grieve, and they would know the pain of the loss that stings deep in Morrow’s chest. The Spies would know how big of a hole that’s going to be left in their heart.
And Morrow wasn’t even there to see it happen. They’re under no delusion that they could have stopped it. They know they couldn’t have stopped it. But they weren’t there, during Teddy’s last game. They didn’t see it. And so they’re constructing the worst possible picture in their mind, of how terrified Teddy could have been, of how devastating it would have been to see. It’s worse, they think, to be so far away when this sort of thing happened.
They don’t know who to turn to, here. The Lovers have been so welcoming, so kind. But they don’t know any of them well enough to thrust the emotional weight of this onto them. So instead Morrow continues walking out of the stadium and into the city of New York, not caring where they’re going, and not caring whether or not people get out of their way. They must look awful, because in the haze of walking, no one seems to bump into them.
They’re not going anywhere but forward. They’re not doing anything but walking. Morrow feels an intense thrum of energy over them, like they do when they cast magic, but it’s hot like fire. They should be paying more attention, but the heat just sends them thinking again about how it must have felt to be on the field as Teddy was lost.
They were really one of the best. Not in playing, because Morrow couldn’t give a shit about how good other people were at playing. But she was one of the best teammates anyone could have asked for. Teddy was always there for anyone who needed them, she knew how to lighten any mood and she cared so much about everyone on the team. When they pulled pranks on other players, it never felt like you were the butt of a joke. Even Morrow, wrapped in anger at the time, in their early seasons on the Spies, could appreciate the fact that it always felt like Teddy wanted to laugh with you, never at you. She kept an eye on everyone, and while they never were one to give advice, they were always there to give some comfort.
Whenever Teddy roped Morrow into some prank scheme, they had felt like they belonged. When she had pulled them into a tight hug the night before the season 12 elections, and gave them that purple and white tie-dye bandana she said reminded her of them, Morrow had cried more than they would like to admit. And Teddy hadn’t mentioned it, just squeezed tighter and told them, “I’ll see you soon.” Morrow hadn’t even considered the fact that it could end up being an unwilling lie.
The burst of energy that had gotten them moving this much and this far is fading now, and Morrow comes to their senses hunched over, face in their balled up fists, sitting next to an air conditioning unit. They can tell they’re up at least a few floors by the strong wind, and they have no idea how they got up this high. Through the fuzzy lens of tears, they can see a few dents in the AC unit that seem new. They might have done those. They don’t really care about property damage right now.
They scrub at their eyes a bit, sitting up straight. They lean their head back, looking up at the sky. Morrow understands all those songs the Garages play about fighting gods now. They just want to make something to pay for taking Teddy away from them. Away from their team. They just want to have something in front of them to hit, that makes things like this stop happening.
They look back down, over into the streets of the city. People are going about their day. Doing everyday things. Morrow’s only one or two stories up right now, and everyone looks so small still. They’re going about their days, and living their lives like nothing happened. Another incineration in blaseball doesn’t change the world for anyone but the people close to them.
Morrow wonders if the Lovers are still in the dugout. Still talking about the game. They didn’t know Teddy. They have no reason to change their routine. It does make them mad just thinking about it, so maybe it’s for the best that they ran off up here. They don’t know if they could take things going on like normal without breaking another phone.
Things shouldn’t be normal. The world should stop, and pay their respects to Theodore Holloway, and then do whatever they can to get them back. Morrow shoves their face into their hands again, and tries to stop themselves from dry sobbing. They know they’re going to get dehydrated at this point, they feel the stinging headache coming on.
Someone on the Spies would have offered a water bottle, if they were with them. They would have a shoulder to lean on, if they were back home. Instead, Morrow prepares to ride out the grief here, on this random roof of a city they don’t know, alone.
They’re only alone up there for a quarter of an hour before someone finds them. Morrow feels a ripple of magic, the kind that they aren’t really trained to identify, but still can intrinsically sense. The ripple is quickly followed by the sound of bird wings, and the somber face of one Yeong-Ho Garcia.
Yeong-Ho doesn’t say anything as they levitate into a sitting position next to them. If Morrow had more energy, they’d probably tell them to piss right off. But they feel alone right now. And past the point where it really matters who’s sitting beside them.
They haven’t spoken to Yeong-Ho much at all, given the fact that they’re a mage, and Morrow tends to avoid those. They know Yeong-Ho’s from the Magic, and they know they joined relatively recently. Morrow also… remembers something from earlier in the season. An incineration. On the Magic. A lineup player, someone that had been there since the beginning.
“How do you do it?” Morrow asks. Their voice is dry and raw.
“Do what?” Yeong-Ho tilts their head to the side, and then removes a waterskin from their belt to pass over to Morrow.
Morrow takes it, but doesn’t drink from it yet. “How do you deal with being so far away when it happens?” They pop off the top of it, swishing it around in their hands. “How do you deal with knowing they’re on the field, somewhere else? In danger?”
Yeong-Ho takes a moment to think, looking down at the city. Their knee occasionally brushes up against Morrow’s, as they’re sitting next to each other. Morrow hates how much comfort that brings them at a time like this, with someone they don’t really know. They take a sip from the waterskin. It tastes clean and fresh, somehow.
“I don’t, really.” Yeong-Ho concludes. “I think I just hope for the best, when I can’t see them. And then, when the unthinkable happens, I think about it then.”
They let out a bitter laugh. “That sucks, Yeong-Ho,” Morrow says, with only light malice.
“I know.” They reply, and scoot a little closer. “Blaseball sucks, sometimes.”
“Blaseball sucks, all the time,” Morrow, despite themselves, leans into the touch. They rest their head on the shoulder of this teammate that should be a stranger to them. But despite the fact that they’ve never really had a conversation with them, they feel like they’re really the only one that understands them, in that moment.
Yeong-Ho offers a hand to Morrow. They take it with both of their own, and hold onto it like a lifeline. The sun is beginning to go down over them, and Morrow doesn’t know if their team knows where they are, or anything about what happens next. But they can’t move from here, the lifeline that they’ve been offered.
“Hey, Yeong-Ho?” Morrow says, looking up at the darkening sky. They don’t want to just sit in silence. The world stopping without honoring the dead is worse than the world still moving.
“Yes?”
“What was Sutton Picklestein like?”