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The party had been Kennedy’s idea. Two new players in this election, plus one returning for the Nth time, called for a full-sized gathering. Well, it called for two. One to send off Baldwin, Logan, and Luis, and then a second to welcome Harrell, Nagomi, and York. The party being a pool party, though, that was York’s suggestion. The three of them had all played for a long time in Hawai’i, he’d said, and the weather was warm enough for it, and didn’t it feel like it ought to be summer anyway?
So the team piled over to Kennedy’s house and helped him set up the pool in the backyard, then stood around chatting indoors as it filled. Nagomi said a few words (as few as she could get away with) about her time in Boston. Harrell assured everyone that Sutton and Monty were doing just fine on the Fridays. York lifted up his shirt to show off the hole in his stomach left from the incineration, which everyone agreed was cool as hell.
Brock Forbes spent the afternoon on edge. The team hadn’t wanted to bring York back. Neither did the fans, it seemed, at least not as a bloc. But someone, somewhere, did. And then it was made so. York Silk, the boy wonder, standing more-or-less alive in a townhouse in Baltimore drinking some lemon-lime soda with too many consonants in its name.
The pool had filled, and Kennedy beckoned everyone outside. Brock figured this was as good a time as any. “York,” he called.
York stopped and turned to look at him, already halfway out the door.
“Mind if I talk to you for a bit? One-on-one,” Brock asked.
York said nothing. For an instant, Brock felt pinned down by his gaze like a pawn trapped in front of the king. But the moment passed, and York’s smile lit up. “Sure thing, Mr. Forbes,” he replied, sliding the door to the backyard shut behind everyone else who had left.
“Just ‘Brock’ is fine,” said Brock. York made no indication he’d heard as he walked over to meet Brock in the kitchen.
“So. How do you feel? About…” Brock gestured vaguely.
York lifted himself up to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his feet above the floor. “What, about being resurrected? That’s a heck of a thing to ask someone, Mr. Forbes.”
“Mm.” Brock nodded, understanding. York laughed lightly and looked up, apparently deep in thought. He ran a finger in a circle on the front of his shirt, around the edge of the hole in his torso. After a moment of silence, Brock added, “You don’t have to answer.”
“I think I do,” York replied, not looking away from the spot on the ceiling.
“You don’t.”
“I do,” York insisted. “You pitch, I swing. You ask, I answer. That’s how the game’s played, right?”
Brock took a sip of his drink in lieu of a reply. He didn’t have one to give, anyway.
The silence lengthened. Right when Brock was about to speak up, York began. “I think that, if I was being pressed on the subject--”
“Which you’re not,” Brock interjected.
“--which I most certainly am, then I would have to say it feels like I’m light and heavy at the same time.”
“Mm,” Brock non-answered.
“As though there’s less of me in a sense. Well--” here, he tapped at the place where his stomach wasn’t-- “not just literally. But also, what was there has been replaced with… a weight of something that doesn’t belong to me.”
A red icon of a figure with a sword through its back flashed through Brock’s mind. “The Debt.”
“That’s probably it. That’s what they called it with Jaylen, right?”
“That’s what it’s called.”
“Sure. But no matter what you call it, I’m not really looking forward to being saddled with it. It’s a bit of a drag.”
Brock set down his drink on the counter. “Jaylen killed people, York. I wouldn’t call that just ‘a drag.’”
“I know. Well, she marked people for death, which isn’t very different. But it also isn’t the same.” York was looking down at Brock from the counter now. “You could argue that if it weren’t for the rogue umpires, Jaylen wouldn’t have brought any harm to anyone.”
Brock fixed York in a level stare. “I could argue that if it weren’t for the rogue umpires, Jaylen wouldn’t have needed to be brought back at all.”
“Sure.” York took another sip of his soda, then refilled his cup from the plastic bottle next to him. “Or me. Though ‘need’ is a funny word for it.”
“Mm?” Brock grunted.
“They didn’t need to bring her back, did they? Like, for what purpose, you know? Fun? Curiosity? To see if they could? To see if they’d catch the rulebook with its pants down?”
Brock nodded. “Mm. Maybe not. So what are you going to do?”
York sighed and hopped off the counter. He was still taller than Brock. When had that happened? “I dunno. Play ball, I suppose.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” York took another drink of soda.
Brock hid his incredulity behind a stony stare. “If it didn’t need to happen, then aren’t you going to try and fight it?”
York sighed and brushed a tuft of hair away from his face. The twinkle behind his eyes blinked out. “Mr. Forbes, just because it didn’t need to happen doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Her death. My death. Her rebirth. My rebirth. It didn’t have to happen, any of it, but it did. It is. And it will.”
Brock stared. Then he grabbed his drink from the counter and took a sip to give his face, his mind, something else to do.
“If you don’t like it, you could always kill me.”
Brock raised an eyebrow. He suspected for a moment that York was intentionally trying to get a reaction out of him. A spit take for the cameras, maybe. A moment afterwards, he realized the opposite was true.
He lowered his drink. “What makes you say that?”
York laughed again, but this time, it rang hollow. “I just think that if it’s such a problem, you could solve it yourself. Hold me down in the bay or something. I dunno what’s keeping me alive right now with all the organs missing, but I bet a good old-fashioned drowning would do the trick.”
Brock stared out the window, at the rest of the team in the backyard. Anything to avoid looking at York’s face. “What makes you think I would?”
York hummed in thought. “I read about what happened in this city. With the Olde One? If I had to guess, I’d say you were involved, and if I had to guess again I’d say you were in the front.”
The plastic cup in Brock’s hand crumpled under his grip. He froze for an instant, then sighed and walked around York to throw it away. “Interesting guesses,” he grumbled.
York gave him a half smile as he passed. “That’s just a theory, of course. A game theory.”
Brock scowled, but he couldn’t suppress a chuckle all the same. He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re an interesting kid.”
“And you’re an interesting man, Mr. Forbes.” The twinkle in York’s eyes had returned.
“But…” Brock began, paused, opened his mouth, closed it, “...your idea wouldn’t work anyway.”
“It wouldn’t?”
“Nagomi.”
York shrugged in agreement. “Oh, yeah, Gomi’d pulverize you if you tried anything, of course. Guess you’re stuck with me.”
Brock grunted. “When did you get so…” he waved his hand, now drink-free, searching for the right word. “So… blasé about this sort of thing?”
“Oh, I dunno. Maybe…” York trailed off into a fit of giggles, as though-- that is, because, Brock corrected himself-- what he was about to say was inherently absurd. “It probably happened, I dunno, when I died? Maybe? Just… just a guess.” York began to laugh harder, having to set down his drink to avoid spilling it.
Brock didn’t think it was that funny, but he laughed too, despite himself. “Ask a silly question, get a silly answer.”
York composed himself and picked up his soda, then grabbed the bottle from the counter as an afterthought. “Let’s head out. Everyone’s probably wondering what’s keeping us.”
“Mm.” Brock nodded. “You gonna swim?”
“Eh, probably not.” York glanced down at his torso. “I dunno how good pool water is for my insides, and now doesn’t feel like the time to find out.”
“Mm.” Brock slid open the door to the backyard and stepped out into the afternoon light. Kennedy saw him and waved him over to his deck chair.
“What’s the deal?” Ken asked as Brock walked over.
“Just wanted to hear how York was feeling,” Brock answered.
“And?”
Brock turned back to look at York. He was bent down, splashing water onto Finn as she splashed him back. Behind him, Nagomi watched over the backyard, arms folded.
“He’ll be alright.”