Chapter Text
Bodies are comprised of individual atoms.
Atoms combine to form molecules.
Technically, atoms are made of smaller and smaller things, but they have a lot of hard to remember names and complicated specifications, so atoms are as good a place to start as any.
Where were they-?
Molecules.
Molecules combine together, don’t they? They react. They combine. They interact. Interreact? What’s the difference between interacting and combining?
You shouldn’t have different words that mean the same things. Irresponsible.
If you put the molecules together they become a cell. Plants have cell walls. Humans don’t.
Again, irresponsible.
Cells interreact and combine and make organs.
The organs sit on top of each other and nestle into a shell.
Something flows between them. Something courses. Blood and electricity. Life?
But not a person. Not something that lives.
You shouldn’t have different words that mean the same things.
What do you add to blood and electricity?
Atoms given structure. Energy to move the structure. Plus-
An echo.
A mirror of a -cosm as micro or macro as you’d like. The whole reflected in its parts. A woven net of beads.
Infinity infinitely confined.
Irresponsible.
***
“Bodies are comprised of individual atoms.”
“What are you on about now?” asked Sixpack.
“Just trying to remember how to have a body,” said Quitter.
“Right.” Sixpack went back to stirring the pot of water yet to boil. It was pasta night and the stove burner was the last bastion against the encroaching Canadian cold. “And how’s that going for you?”
Quitter raised a hand to their face. But there was no hand, just as there was no face to raise it to. They were still, as they had been, a viewpoint unmoored.
“Not gonna lie, it’s going pretty fucking shitty.”
"Yeah," said Sixpack, gruff voice angled downwards towards the swirling water. "That figures."
part 1: speaking to the microphone
“i’m going to bed now, i’ve sunk into my sorrows
and it’ll take 300 million dollars to get me up tomorrow...”
“the ballad of the costa concordia”, car seat headrest
“What are we watching tonight?” asked Quitter, from somewhere nebulously around and above Sixpack’s head. Sometimes it became possible to pinpoint exactly where it was coming from, but as far as Sixpack could figure that tended to have more to do with Quitter’s perception of themself than hers.
“Bachelor,” she said, tipping a small mound of bottled parmesan cheese atop her pasta. She frowned and shook a little more on top. You could never have enough.
“Ugh, AGAIN??” moaned Quitter.
“Season’s almost over.”
“Fucking finally. Jesus I’ve never seen a dude so indecisive.”
“You should’ve seen last season,” said Sixpack, adjusting her laptop screen to get rid of some of the glare. “The dude proposed and then changed his mind. Canceled the whole thing, went with the other girl.”
“No WAY.”
“Mmhmm. Greatest thing I’ve ever seen.” Sixpack’s mouth showed no sign of approaching a smile.
“Well if this dumbshit chooses Laura H over Laura F I’m gonna go fucking ballistic. Laura F is the hottest woman I’ve seen in my life.”
“You’re not alive.”
“Laura F is the hottest woman I would have seen in my life if I were still fucking alive, you ass. Anyway plug your laptop into the TV, I hate watching like this.”
“I’ve got no problem with it. Plus, I don’t wanna get up.”
“Lazyass.”
“Shh. It’s the intro.”
Sixpack jammed her fork into the pasta without looking and twirled, scattering parmesan as she watched the recap of last week’s events. Not that she needed it, her attention had been just as rapt last week at the same time. But it was interesting to see what the producers thought needed recapping. It could give you insight into the narrative they were building, as much via what they omitted as what they included.
This was the tempo of Sixpack’s days in the shadows, keeping time through a succession of weekly shows and meals. Bachelor and pasta, game shows and soup, each night's pairing and their order locked in place and so on until the last day, where by night she’d order food and watch a movie, and by day shop for groceries to begin the cycle anew the next week. Hardly exciting, but then that was the point. Enough stimulation to keep her occupied and no more.
And Quitter her companion through it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, she figured. Trying to work out the mechanics of the haunting had earned Sixpack an invisible shrug and a beats me dude from them, but she figured it was due to her still-maintained status as a receiver. She still got things down the line from the other echoes from time to time, the remaining fourth and tenth Wyatts - no, Ivy and Max, she reminded herself. It wasn’t the most improbable thing in the world that she’d also be able to hear what remained of those who’d drifted away not-so-peacefully into the static.
She had yet to mention to anyone that Quitter was hanging out with her from beyond the grave. Didn’t need anyone thinking she’d finally lost her mind completely. Plus, she could tell Quitter liked it better this way. Maybe it was the mindmeld. Or maybe it was just empathy.
“Hey. Sixpack.”
“What, Quitter.” The voice was coming from directly over her shoulder, now.
“Dust my wets.”
Sixpack closed her eyes. “What?”
“Dust my wets, Sixpack! Please. My wets.”
“What are you talking about.”
“Oh my god, do you really not know this one? It’s a fucking classic tweet, okay pull out your phone and just type in ‘dust my wets’. It’s hilarious.”
“Can you save bothering me for after the show?”
“I dunno,” said Quitter, giving off the distinct impression of crossing their arms petulantly. “Can you get off your ass and plug your laptop into HDMI?”
“I told you, I don’t wanna get up. Just watch it over my shoulder.”
“Your fucking hair gets in the way!”
“Not my problem,” said Sixpack, fumbling for the bottle opener that was somewhere on the table. She’d just remembered she had cider.
If she’d counted them as such, Sixpack would be forced to admit that Quitter was one of her oldest friends. And even though she was rarely tempted to consider the two of them friends, the fact remained that they were among the first people she’d met after her instantiation.
Should she search back in her mind, the first thing Sixpack would remember was a resonant hum, a speaker playing its own noise. It had surrounded her consciousness and waited patiently as it finished pulling itself out of the primordial immateria that had birthed it. As it awoke Sixpack realized she had arms, and she used them to push herself upwards onto legs she’d also only just recognized she had. Standing brought a feeling of strain through her joints that made her think they hadn’t been used in some time. Then again, she couldn’t remember ever having used them before. Her eyelids pried free from each other and her pupils were seared open by a blinding flash of pink.
When she adjusted her eyes, a figure floated in front of her. Looked to be a kid, or at least someone young. They hovered off the ground, ringed by halos made of thick audio cable that bristled with magenta energy, their form not present so much as it was silhouetted in an ambient glow that seemed to be the only light in wherever this place was.
“Hi!” they said, with a chipper voice that undercut Sixpack’s utter disorientation. “How are you feeling?”
“Uh,” she said. She took stock of her body, running her hands along the outside of her arms and thighs. Felt sturdy enough. Broad, even. “I exist?”
“That’s good!” chirped the figure, without reservation. “Big improvement, anyway.”
She looked down at her body. Couldn’t make out much of it in the dim light, but it was wearing a jersey tucked into denim shorts. Her shoulders slouched instinctively. It felt right. She thought for a moment and rolled her sleeves up onto her shoulders. She was starting to get the hang of existing.
“Silly me,” said the figure, “I haven’t even introduced myself! You can call me the Microphone. Probably the easiest name for the time being.”
“Nice to meet you,” mumbled Sixpack.
“Likewise!”
She went to introduce herself, but paused. “Then, uh. Who am I?”
The glow emitting from the figure’s eyes flickered briefly. “Unfortunately, that’s a tricky question at the moment.”
“Oh.”
“I can tell you who you should be!”
“Close enough.”
“Right. How should I explain it. Let’s see,” and the figure started leaning backwards, slowly rotating in midair. “So, you were born! Which, congratulations, big moment for you. But uh, something went wrong.”
“With being born?”
“No, with uh. Data? Time? We lost a lot of it.”
“A lot of… which one?”
“Both!”
She fought back a twitch in her eye. She was getting off to a great start in terms of frustrating conversations, compared to this she imagined any other one would seem a cakewalk.
“Anyway, your being born was part of what was lost.”
“So I don’t exist?”
“Technically no! And it’s my job to fix that. Or, was, anyway. I’m mostly done, I saved you for last, I figured it was easier to just take the person you replaced and-”
“I replaced someone?”
“Yeah! After he was incinerated. So like I was saying it-”
“Incinerated?”
The Microphone gave a thin but gentle smile. “You’ll have to get someone else to catch you up later, I can’t really go through it all right now.”
“Right. So I replaced someone?”
“Exactly!”
“Then they came back. And my replacing them was- lost.”
“You catch on quick!”
She considered which of two questions to ask first. “Who were they?”
“The person you replaced? Their name was Thomas England.”
The name sent a bolt through her mind and her eyes widened enough that the Microphone’s light became painful. But it was nothing compared to the heat coursing over her now, or the memory of it. She felt the warm sun passing over her skin, many days in sunlight, and the fire that consumed - her? them? - when the sun vanished behind the moon. In her mind’s eye she felt that body turn to ash from a perspective within it, and in the fading remnants of memory she saw the replacement, a body that looked very much like the one she saw when she looked down at herself, once she returned from memory to the present. The Microphone was silent, except for the feedback hum that would never cease.
“Why am I here? Why am I not him?”
“My job was to bring things back to as close to how they were after day 88. Which involved making sure you were here and he wasn’t. So I overwrote him. With you!”
“You can just- do that?”
“Apparently!” laughed the Microphone. “The creators were pretty desperate to keep the fans happy. You’d be surprised what people will give up when they’re desperate.”
All that was too much to dig into right now. She refocused. “Okay, then. So who- What’s my name?”
“Oh, did I not tell you already? My bad! Everything’s a bit all over the place at the moment. Your name is Dogwalker! Sixpack Dogwalker!”
“That’s quite the name,” grimaced Sixpack.
“Isn’t it just. Don’t worry, you’ll be in good company.”
“And- Who am I? Am I him? Am I me? What is me even like?”
The Microphone closed their eyes and grinned in a way that not even Sixpack could fail to take encouragement from. “You’ll just have to figure that out on your own!”
Sixpack tucked her thumbs into the pockets of her shorts, a motion that felt practiced. Though who had done the practicing, she couldn’t say.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” said the Microphone. “But I have faith in you! You’ve just gotta have hope.”
“Sure. I’ll try.”
The Microphone laughed and Sixpack was once again taken by just how young they looked. “One last thing. Before I send you back-”
“Back?” Sixpack looked around at the space she was in, which she was quickly realizing was best described by the word ‘void’. “Back where?”
“-I was wondering,” continued the Microphone, deftly avoiding the question, “if you’d help me out with something.”
“What, exactly?”
“A plan!”
“To…?”
“Save everyone, of course! We’re the good guys, so we have to defeat evil! It just makes sense.”
Sixpack frowned. “I mean, sure, but-”
“Great! Thanks a ton, I mean it.”
“Sure, no worries, but-”
“Anyway! Time to send you back. Good luck with everything down there!”
“Wait!” said Sixpack, gritting her teeth as the sound of feedback grew louder and more shrill in her ears. “I just-”
But the vision of the Microphone in front of her was already fading, becoming too dark to see. She reached her arm out but it found nothing. And then, light. Sunlight. The cry of an ocean bird. Sixpack lifted her hand up to look towards endlessly blue sky. The first time she’d seen the sun. When she made to move her feet shifted against sand rough and warm. She flexed her toes, digging them underneath the surface, and turned her head out to the ocean, finishing the sentence she hadn’t been able to say.
“I just don’t know why me.”
***
When Sixpack showed up for the next day’s game, there was a bat placed against her locker. She would’ve known it was her locker even if some of the team hadn’t kindly pointed it out to her. So it must be the bat she was supposed to use.
“Oh, you’ve got one too!”
Sixpack turned to see a kid standing a respectful distance away. This one seemed younger than the Microphone. She wondered why she was running into so many who were so inexperienced. Maybe they sensed it in her.
“One what?”
“An item! A special one.”
“You mean this bat?”
“Mmhmm!” smiled the kid. “Here’s mine!”
From out of nowhere, the boy produced a terrifying weapon, a long blade wrought in silver. With a trigger. And a revolver chamber.
Well that just seems excessive, thought Sixpack. By comparison, her “special” item was downright insulting. Just a bat, aluminum. In fact, on close inspection, it wasn’t even up to snuff with the regular equipment. It was weirdly oblong. And if you looked closely it even curved a bit.
“You’re a replacement, aren’t you!”
“That’s right,” answered Sixpack. “Never done this before. I think.”
The kid laughed. “You’re funny! I’m a replacement too. But I’ve been here longer than you!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah! My mom said that if you just give it time, people won’t care about it as much! They’ll forget you ever replaced anyone in the first place.”
“Is that- supposed to be a good thing?”
The kid seemed shocked, having not considered this line of inquiry. “My mom said it like it was! So it must be.”
“I guess it must be, then.”
***
Sixpack stood at bat. Her first time at the plate. Her first view of a place that wasn’t Hawai’i was a vast expanse of grass, impossibly different from the dunes her feet felt used to, and yet tranquil in the same way. Maybe all quiet places carried that same peace, or maybe it stashed away somewhere within her.
As she went to swing, the bat grew hot in her hands. She knew this heat. It was the heat from the flames that brought her into this world.
She watched her arms swing, but they were no longer hers. The arms that carried the bat forwards were thinner now, wearing gloves that bore more resemblance to driving gloves than anything used for athletics.
By the time Sixpack returned to herself, she was disoriented and unsteady in the batter’s box. The ball had fouled off behind her. She didn’t swing at the next one.
In the dugout, she looked at the bat in her hand. It turned out what she wielded was a memory, the memory of a man who may now never have been. She gripped it tightly.
Wyatt Quitter caught up to her a bit after Season 4 had ended.
Sixpack was drifting along the outside of the Cookout, paper plate in hand. A slice of pork, partly eaten, overhung the side of it. Not a vegetable to be found; she couldn’t stand them, not yet. Music that sounded of tin drifted along the sand from a boombox someone had wedged into a stray dune. The breeze would soon be reversing with the setting sun but for now it was carrying Sixpack’s hair out of her face as she watched the waves. Quitter spoke before they were noticed.
“Hey.” Sixpack looked down to follow the voice.
“Hey yourself.”
“You Dogwalker?”
“Seems that way.”
“Sure does.”
“And you?”
“Quitter. Wyatt Quitter.”
Sixpack knew enough by this point to know that the first name should elicit a wince from her, but Quitter was hard to flinch from, and not only because of the size discrepancy. Their arched features had a way of looking at you like they were perpetually sizing you up, ruining their attempts to seem disinterested in everything as a rule. Instead it gave the impression that they were always on the verge of figuring something out, just not quite there yet. Their hair blew into their eyes as they scrutinized Sixpack and she couldn’t help but smile at Quitter’s annoyance.
“So,” eased Sixpack, “what brings you out here.”
“Looking for you, dumbshit. Duh.”
“I got that part. I was trying to lead you into why you’d done that.”
“Right. Yeah.”
Sixpack shrugged her shoulders higher than she naturally held them and dropped onto the sand, sitting with the balls of her feet touching. Quitter followed suit, stretching their legs out towards their shadows and flexing the tops of their slide-on sandals.
“Cool if I’m just blunt with it?”
“I’d prefer it,” answered Sixpack.
“Your stat sheet. Interviews or whatever. It says 'Speaking to the Microphone’.”
“Does it?” She’d forgotten players had those. There was a lot to keep track of.
“Is it true?”
“Well,” said Sixpack, dropping her hands into her lap. “Kinda.”
“Fuck does that mean.”
“Do you remember being born?”
“Nope,” came the immediate response. Sixpack shot them a look to which Quitter raised their hands defensively. “Hey, you asked. I make it a policy not to get thrown by weird-ass questions.”
“Fair enough.” She tilted her head to the side. “I do. They were there.”
“The Microphone?”
Sixpack nodded. “We spoke then. And since then I can hear them. But I can’t speak back.”
“What do they say?”
“First my name. Then, ‘Warn them.’ And after that a bunch of single words. Shelled. Infinite. Idols. Those are the ones I could make out, anyway.”
“Oh, cool,” snarked Quitter, “love it when stuff is comprehensible. This splort is great.”
“Right?” Sixpack shook her head, but the wind had died down enough that she had to clear away her hair on her own. “I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“Some warning system.”
“Not like I asked for this.”
“Hey it wasn’t directed at you, don’t take it personal.”
“I’m not taking it personal.”
“Don’t take my assertion that you’re taking it personally personal.”
“Fuck you,” growled Sixpack.
“What did they look like?” asked Quitter, the aggravating tone dropped out of their voice.
“Huh?”
“The Microphone. You said you-”
“Oh. Right.”
“You’d better not tell me it was like. An actual microphone.”
“It wasn’t.” Luckily enough for me, thought Sixpack. She didn’t know if she could deal with an even more animated Quitter. “Bunch of cables. A light. And a kid inside.”
“A kid?” Quitter was less successful than usual at feigning disinterest. “What’d they look like?”
“Hard to make out. Messy hair?”
“Helpful.”
Something in the tone of Quitter’s voice made Sixpack deathly afraid of letting them down. She squinted. “They were nice. Overwhelmed.” She considered. “A bit of a dick about it, honestly.”
That got Quitter to laugh. They shifted their jaw back and forth a few times, then fell backwards onto the sand. Their breathing mixed with the sounds of the shifting tide. It had gotten darker than Sixpack had realized while distracted, and their shadows now relied on the flickering lights from the Cookout to stay alive, torchlight carrying further across sand than the music and the sound of voices.
“That what you were looking for?” asked Sixpack after a long moment.
“Just about. Good enough for me, anyway.”
She didn’t respond, and for the longest time Quitter made no attempt to fill the silence. Sixpack knew instinctively that around them, quiet was something to be savored.
Just as the breeze began to return out to sea, they began to speak. “They were my friend, you know.”
“The Microphone?”
“Yeah. ‘Course, we called them Wyatt back then. Mason if we were pissed. Even though I’m pretty sure I was the only one who ever really got pissed at them. Except for Baz this one time, but that was the exception. They’d been working on this look that was like- And then Wyatt- Well, forget it.” Quitter pushed themself up onto their side, cheek pressed hard against the heel of their palm, firey glare leveled at Sixpack. “How much of the story do you know?”
“All of it, vaguely. Lot to catch up on.”
Quitter grinned. “Sure is. Only gonna get worse, probably. Somebody’s gonna have to write a fucking primer someday.”
“You?”
“Please,” they snorted, “I’ve got better shit to do. Anyway. Los Angeles exploded, we all turned into Wyatt, then Wyatt left. And right after that all happens a new god shows up. It’s getting pretty hard to believe that’s a coincidence.”
“They’re a god?”
“Man I dunno sis, if there’s something in the sky talking I just call it a god, I’m not thinking about it too hard. Don’t wanna argue semantics.”
“Wouldn’t it be theology?”
“I just said no semantics.”
“Fair enough.” Sixpack grabbed a fistful of sand and relished the way it traced out the lines in her palms. “I’m glad you know where they are.”
“For all the good it does me,” mumbled Quitter, raising their arms towards the sky, palms outstretched.
“Gotta do you some good. Otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered asking.”
“Bold of you to imply I’m not just doing some self-destructive shit.”
“Doesn’t seem like you are.” Sixpack turned her head to meet Quitter’s look. Unflinching. Quitter smirked.
“You’re all right, Sixpack, you know that?” They started pushing themself up from the sand. “Take it as a compliment too, I’m hardly cool with anyone. You’re in an exclusive club.”
Somehow, Sixpack doubted that was true. She wasn’t about to force the issue, though. “Thanks.”
Quitter shoved their hands deep into their joggers, wiggling them around to knock off some of the sand. “Guess I’d better get outta here, then.”
“You sure? There’s plenty of food and these things always go late.”
“Hey, free food’s always tempting. But nah, I dragged Pothos all the way out here with me, I’d feel bad just leaving her in the hotel. She’s shy and all, so.”
“Pothos?”
“My girlfriend.” Quitter’s face lit up with a hint of a dopey grin. Effortlessly adorable. It suited them a lot better than scorn. “I’m not that good with flying, so uh. Yeah.” The end of the sentence dissolved into a self-deprecating chuckle. Sixpack repaid it with a smile of her own.
“Well, I won’t keep you, then. But I’m sure no one would mind if you took a plate of food or two back with you. For the girlfriend.”
“Damn, you’re just made of good ideas, huh! You’re going places, Sixpack, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” laughed Sixpack.
Quitter walked backwards, hands in their pockets, retreating towards the party. They were silhouetted in the light and for a moment Sixpack saw the resemblance between the two Wyatts. She hesitated for a moment, inhaled the sea air as it moved past her.
“Hey.” She caught Quitter mid-turn. “Just, uh. When the Microphone- er, Wyatt, talks sometimes. They’ll call out for their friends. And it’s not like I know for sure or anything. But it sort of seems like that might be you. Your team. You know?”
Quitter’s mouth pursed, as if they were sucking on the words like a sour candy. They nodded once, then a flurry of times. “Thanks.” It was said quietly, but Sixpack picked it up without trouble. She was very good at hearing things.
The warm firelight swallowed Quitter before Sixpack could respond. All she could do was watch as they pushed their way to the front of various lines, stacking two plates high with food. She picked up her own plate, eyeing the scrap still left on it. Her stomach growled. She should go back and get a refill for herself.
Not just yet, though. The sun hadn’t finished setting behind her, the low ocean air still clinging to indigo before black. She’d wait that long, until the darkness was fully settled. In the meantime, she’d wade down the slope towards the ocean, only enough to feel the tide against her feet, and think to herself that some facets of life were their own justification.
“HE ELIMINATED LAURA F???” Quitter was yelling in Sixpack’s ear.
“I’m surprised you didn’t see it coming,” said Sixpack. “It’s pretty obvious the producers-”
“I don’t give a fuck about the producers!! She was so hot. This dude is fucking blind.”
“It’s not really about that, it’s about-”
“So what, you don’t think she’s hot?”
“Well, I didn’t say that.”
“Then what is the fucking truth, Sixpack Dogwalker.”
“The truth is you should probably be happy,” she grinned. “If she’s not dating this dude it just means you have a chance, right?”
“Oh my god, oh my god Sixpack you’re a genius. Here, let me just- Wait, shit, I don’t have a body. Okay, here’s the plan.”
“Uh oh.”
“You’ve gotta do the talking for me, Sixpack. And the existing. Don’t worry, I’ll let you borrow my game, I’ll tell you exactly what to say. Cyrano de Bergerac scenario.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“Don’t worry about it, you’re way hotter than him anyway.”
“Yeah?” said Sixpack, knowing it was pointless to get self-conscious over this. “Think she’d go for me?”
“Hey who knows, maybe she’s got a thing for chicks with dad bods.”
"Uh huh."
"Plus I mean, sis, your DOINKS!"
“I’m gonna reach in there and pull you out of the static so I can kick your ass.”
Quitter cackled, drowning out the end credits of the Bachelor. Sixpack finished off the last of her cider, hiding her amusement behind the bottle’s opening.
***
“Okay, seriously,” said Quitter, early on the next day. “When are you actually gonna do anything.”
“What are you talking about,” said Sixpack, instinctively turning towards the place Quitter’s voice emanated from. Nothing there. As usual. “I’m scrolling Twitter. That’s something.”
“It’s not, that’s the definition of nothing.”
“Don’t wanna get out of bed yet,” grumbled Sixpack.
“You are so fucking boring! You’re supposed to be entertaining me.”
“I don’t remember signing up for babysitting duties. If I’m so boring why not just go be dead somewhere else?”
“Believe me, I’d sure like to. Only problem is you’re literally the only Receiver left.”
“Huh?” Sixpack turned her phone facedown on the pillow and turned in Quitter’s general direction as a substitute for eye contact. “For real?”
“Would it kill you to pay attention for once? Moses died, I got echoed and exploded, NaN got echoed and hasn’t exploded yet. You’re all that’s left.”
“Oh.” Sixpack pushed herself up to sitting, pillow resting between her lower back and her twin sized bed. “I mean, I knew all that happened. I just didn’t know it meant I was the only one.”
How could she not know they'd happened? She'd heard each one, felt each one. Quitter's screams. NaN's fear. The heat on Moses' skin, painful and familiar. And now it seemed all that was left was to await her turn.
“Anyway, speak for yourself,” Quitter was saying.
“Mm?”
“As far as I can tell you don’t have any friends besides my dead ass. So don’t come at me about it.”
“I’ve got friends,” growled Sixpack.
“If you have to say so it kinda makes me think you don’t.”
“Well, it’s the on-season. And they’re all Blaseball people, so they’re working.”
“Excuses, excuses.”
“You’re trying to annoy me into hanging out with someone so you have a conversation to eavesdrop.”
“So this is the thanks I get for trying to help you out, huh? A bad faith reading? You’re so fucking mean to me, Sixpack.”
“Not nearly as mean as I should be.”
“You’re so fucking nice to me, Sixpack. So I’ll repay your kindness and also prove I’m not just out for myself by saying I’ll fuck off if you hang out with literally anyone.”
Sixpack stretched her arms to the side, rolling her neck. “Do I really seem that bad?”
“Kinda fucking miserable.”
“Huh. I don’t feel that miserable.”
“Well you’re not a good actor so I dunno, sis.”
“And you’ll actually fuck off if I do?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die in a more permanent fashion.”
“Fine. I’m texting Dot right now. Happy?”
“So happy I can barely contain myself.” A pause as Quitter processed. “You know that guy?”
“We traded for each other. Stayed in touch after.”
“Shows me, I guess. Welp, deal’s a deal, guess I’m fucking o-”
Silence cut them off midsentence. Sixpack rolled her eyes as she sent a text. Quitter still hadn’t worked out the timing on ending conversations.
What Sixpack had said was only partially a lie. She had in fact been traded for PolkaDot Patterson at the end of Season 15, her going to the Moist Talkers, them taking her place on the Steaks. And the two of them had in fact been in touch since then, through the next elections which saw Sixpack being shuffled into the shadows and Dot being alternated, replaced if not in entirety then at least on the lineup by a fresh-faced pitcher who may have been even worse than Sixpack, which was saying something.
Her only lie was by omission, leaving out the fact that she’d in fact become acquainted with Dot many seasons before, before she’d ever known a team besides the Fridays.
Sixpack was a pitcher by then, hadn’t had more than a few weeks’ worth of games as a batter. Maybe the Microphone sensed the way she stepped away from the batter’s box each time holding their bat in a heady mix of sorrow and wistfulness, a feeling of wrongness that came each time she was divorced from her body that was never harder than at those moments to convince herself was truly hers.
She kept the bat once she became a pitcher, but that was all she did. It was hard, if the Microphone really was a god, not to see the reverb as an answered prayer. The demotion in her skills was just the price one had to pay for a wish granted. It wasn’t that much of a hassle, being a shitty pitcher. There were plenty of them around, after all. Just made it a bit uncomfortable talking with the better ones. And PolkaDot was the best of all of them.
“I’d rather it be me,” they said. It was the first thing Dot had said to Sixpack since joining them on the beach, where some distance away York Silk was occupied playing with Baldwin Breadwinner and her kids. Sixpack had felt obligated to allow them the first word in the conversation, a decision which had cost them several minutes. She wasn’t yet familiar with Dot’s aversion to the spoken word.
“I can’t say I blame you,” said Sixpack, watching the smile on York’s face as he adjusted his bucket hat. “Although not many other people are in a position where they could actually do it.” Sixpack was leaving gaps between her sentences for Dot to fill, but empty they remained, leaving her to fill them almost compulsively. “So maybe it’s a hollow sentiment. But it’s different. When it’s a kid. I think. Not sure.” She looked down into her lap. “Lot of space above the line this time.”
“Can you help?”
In PolkaDot’s usually placid face was a touch of pleading. It was the question Sixpack had been dreading.
“I. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t- I don’t think I know anything you all don’t? The Mic seems more interested in sending something to Jaylen,” (messages which she hadn’t delivered, Sixpack remembered with a pang of guilt) “and whatever the Hall is. So whatever you’re hoping for, I don’t think I have it.”
“Okay,” said PolkaDot. That’s it? Sixpack couldn’t help but think. She waited, but it seemed that was indeed it.
“I-” She wanted to say she was sorry but it seemed impossible to say. “I feel like there’s something. Something I’m supposed to be doing. Some reason for- for why I’m like this. And maybe if it were someone else where I am then they would know what to do. But I don’t. So-”
She ran out of steam, gripping her hand in a fist in the warm sand. Without another voice in the conversation she’d picked up too much momentum. It dissipated fully by the time Dot responded.
“Your position is who you are.” It seemed so matter of fact when they said it, eyes lurking in the shade of the Moist Talkers cap they seemed never to change out of.
“You have no idea how little that helps,” said Sixpack, laughing in a quick bark. “About the only thing I know less about than what I’m supposed to be doing with the random words I hear is who I’m supposed to be. I wasn’t even supposed to exist, you know. I was a person, once, I think. Or someone with my name was. But I got rolled back, then sewn into the fabric of reality by what seems like the world’s shittiest sewer. Seamster? Whatever the word is. Point is, if my existence and the reason for my existence are the same thing, then I’m doubly fucked. Fucked fucked fucked.”
“My mom says if you swear too much it gives you bad breath!” said York Silk, appearing from out of nowhere on the other side of Sixpack from PolkaDot. “And my mom’s always right!”
Sixpack jolted up off the sand. Even Dot started slightly. “Jesus. Scared me half to death, York,” she said.
“Oops!” chuckled York. “Sorry Ms. Dogwalker. Sorry Mx. Patterson.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid.”
“What are you two talking about, anyway!”
“Grown-up stuff,” answered Dot, too fast for Sixpack to worry over the response. She was grateful for the save.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. It’s boring.”
***
By the end of season seven, PolkaDot was in the shell that Sixpack couldn’t shake the feeling had been meant for York. She didn’t begrudge them the sacrifice, just that she’d been unable to do it herself. If all they were was their positions, it was left for her to bear the role of ineffectual survivor. That much, at least, she was strong enough to do.
York took the news well, not happily but well. Maybe that was to be expected for someone who’d joined as the result of a loss even more permanent, although if Sixpack had ever been so young she couldn’t imagine taking it with nearly the same grace.
She left out the detail that Dot had been shelled in York’s place. Maybe that made her a coward. If it did, Sixpack figured there were worse things to be.
The GPS gently informed Sixpack that she’d reached the right place, and she eased her sedan into a nearby spot. Plenty of spaces empty; Halifax was sleepy as cities went, and especially so on weeknights. But that was when Dot had been free, and so that was when Sixpack found herself in front of a bar downtown, easing the car into park and preemptively pulling a beanie over her ears.
She’d offered to make her way down to meet them, but Dot had said it was fine, they were planning on visiting Halifax anyway. Sixpack deferred to them, even though however much work being a pitching coach was, it was almost certainly more demanding than residing in the shadows. Maybe it was her way of assuaging the guilt of only then realizing that she’d never been back to Hawai’i since she’d left, not for any reason that wasn’t necessitated by a Blaseball game, that is.
Cold wind blew out towards the water and Sixpack had to lean against the car door to get it to open. It was only a quick walk across the street to the door of the bar but Sixpack was convinced that without the proper coverings - hat, of course, plus the coat over two layers, pants over thermal wear, heavy boots - without these, she was sure even five seconds in the cold outside would give her frostbite twice over. Looking left then right then left again, she waddled her way across the street, pushing the hair out of her vision once it was safe. Doing so revealed PolkaDot, waiting leaned up against the wall of the bar, in a thin long-sleeve t-shirt and jeans, tentacles that were once hair falling loosely around them. They gave Sixpack an expectedly expressionless once over.
“It’s not that cold,” they said.
How could she go back to Hawai’i?
She’d been the one who asked to leave.
She couldn’t stay.
As the end of season 8 drew near she noticed in another's face the same inescapable sense of powerlessness, of being given potential and squandering it. Sixpack stopped Jacob Winner after an arbitrary game.
"I'm fine, really," said Jacob, looking as usual more suited for surfing than Blaseball but wearing a clenched expression that he was clearly not used to having to hide.
"Course you are," said Sixpack, "but here I am anyway."
Maybe someday she'd learn how to comfort others for reasons that weren't selfish, self-absolving. For now she hoped this was enough.
"It was always a long shot," admitted Jacob after a strained silence. "I mean we knew what we were getting into, was pretty clear on the description. Random person on the team. So, one in fourteen that York got made un-idol-able. Shit odds."
"But something."
"More than what we have now."
"Well, what's moping going to help?"
Jacob chuckled and brought an easy smile to his face. "Nothing. But what does it hurt?"
"Morale, I guess."
"Hey, if my mood being better could save this team's vibes from falling off a cliff then maybe we're better off than I thought."
"No one blames you, you know."
"Oh, sure sure. I mean they're good folks."
"Not quite what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" said Jacob, looking up at her with exasperation.
"Just-" stuttered Sixpack, "I mean, like you said. Shit odds. The fact that you got the blessing doesn't mean it’s your fault that-"
"I know that." Then, quieter: "I just wish I could believe it."
"Yeah. I guess me too."
"Me three!" interjected York, appearing from underfoot as usual, beaming away. Sixpack could watch in real time as Jacob Winner's face displayed every stage of grief and wrapped around to the beginning again.
"Oh, hey bud!" he said. "Hey, good game out there!"
"Thanks, Mr. Winner! Anyway, what aren't we believing?"
"Grown-up stuff," said Sixpack quickly, reciting Dot's excuse on reflex. "It's boring. So."
"Oh. Yeah, I get it!" said York. Sixpack breathed a silent sigh of relief.
"You know, York, it's been a little bit since we grabbed soft serve after a game," said Jacob. "How's about we-"
“I get it, you know! I get what’s going on. You think I can’t handle it. Like if you don’t remind me I’m gonna get shelled then I’ll just forget about it. Go back to playing around like nothing’s wrong. Be just a normal kid. Like the game doesn’t want me to be.”
“York, that’s not-” started Sixpack.
"I'm not dumb!" said York, fist suddenly clenched, eyes downcast. "Just because I'm a kid doesn't mean I'm dumb. It doesn't. I know, okay! I know what's gonna happen to me. You don't have to act like I can't understand it!"
"York, we were just-" backpedaled Sixpack.
"I don't care! I just wish everyone would… Well, I don't know! I don't know." He was breathing heavily, composing himself desperately and unballing his hand, looking up at them from under his hat. "I appreciate it, by the way! That everyone tried to help. It makes me really happy. You're all my family. I love you. But- I was going to have to leave eventually, right?"
"Sure, but it didn't have to be like this!" said Jacob.
"Maybe not. But I think it does, now."
Sixpack wanted to say he was wrong. That he would be spared somehow. That there was mercy in this world and he would be granted some. More than that, she wanted to say that she would be the one to provide that mercy. She wanted to promise to save him.
But hadn't she lied to York enough already?
Sixpack Dogwalker said nothing.
"How've you been?" she asked PolkaDot. When there was no response she elaborated: "I hear you're a pitching coach now. Coaching- yourself? Kinda? That's gotta be wild."
It was always better, Sixpack had found over their interactions, to give Dot a selection of prompts. Made it more likely that they'd respond to at least one of them.
"Not really myself," they answered.
"But an alternate you, right?"
"A Glolfer."
"Huh. Must be an adjustment."
"People have done it."
"Oh, so it's going okay then?"
"Well, no." The first flicker of an expression across Dot's face. Annoyance. "They're very bad."
"Like, me levels of bad?"
"Worse." Dot spat the word out.
Sixpack gave a low whistle of appreciation. "That's pretty bad. You've got your work cut out for you, huh."
Dot's response was to take a healthy swig of their beer. Sixpack tipped her glass back in commiseration, and winced as the acrid taste hit her tongue. She should've ordered a cider. It wasn't worth attempting to not look like a bitch.
"As for me," began Sixpack, knowing they'd never be prompted in return but feeling anxious in the silence, "the shadows are pretty boring. Which I guess is the best thing they could be? I hear some people say it makes their eyes sensitive but I haven't noticed. Maybe because it's so cloudy around here."
Dot nodded, which was about as much input as she'd expected. Sixpack leaned back in her chair, rolling her head around to take in the bar whose table they were occupying. Most everything was wooden, and dim lights lit an impressive wall of bottles so they almost looked like holiday decorations. The floors were clean and the drinks on tap were written in a neat script on a wall-mounted chalkboard perfectly aligned with the bricks behind it. No wonder Dot had chosen this place. It suited them perfectly.
"It's almost nice to have the break," said Sixpack, head returned to looking straight forward. "Pitching's tiring. Especially when you're bad."
"You think being good is easy?"
Sixpack took a slow sip of her beer for effect. "Yep," she said with a smirk.
"Hm," responded Dot. Which was good, it meant they were in on the joke. If it hadn't landed Sixpack knew they'd be chewing her out over the comment.
"Anyway. What about you, is this like a break for you? You've been around a while, probably deserve one as much as anyone."
"Since the very start."
"Longer than me, then. Well, maybe. It's complicated."
"It's harder coaching," said Dot, probably sensing that Sixpack could use a diversion from the subject she’d almost stumbled into. "Well, it's not. But I'm worse at it."
"I think those mean the same thing."
"I'm not so sure."
Sixpack opted to play with the coaster under her drink.
"I don't want to fail," continued PolkaDot. "I don't want to fail them."
"Why? Cause it's your alt? Feel responsible?"
"No. Yes. Not because of that."
"Why then?"
"They asked for help. They looked at me with hope. Like I was a hero."
"And? Are you a hero?"
"I just pitch."
"Well, not anymore," smirked Sixpack.
This time the joke didn't land.
"I pitch."
The second expression that so far had defined the face of PolkaDot Patterson. This one held flame.
How could she go back to Hawai’i?
She couldn't stay.
Couldn't have stayed.
How could she go back to Hawai’i?
She'd been the one who begged to leave.
Speaking to the Microphone.
***
Quitter found her as season 8 ended. They looked the same as the last time Sixpack had seen them, from first glance trapped in the same eternal amber of all of them, unchanging in sap.
But when Quitter marched up to her it became unbearably apparent that this was not the same person Sixpack had known. Their skeptical gaze had been replaced by one of pure certainty, as if their eternal questioning had led them towards one unavoidable answer. They looked frantic. They looked angry. They looked destroyed.
"Why didn't you save her."
"Wh- what are you talking about, Quitter?"
"Pothos. My girlfriend. My fucking team, Dogwalker. Half my fucking team is in goddamn shells, they got put in fucking shells and I want to know why the fuck you didn't stop it."
"I didn't- there was nothing I could do-"
"Then what the fuck is the POINT of you?" The heat Quitter carried burned the sand around them and Sixpack could swear she felt it in the soles of her feet. The sun was nothing in comparison. "You say you talk to Wyatt, fine. You say they warn you, they've got a plan, I'm ALL fucking ears. So now I'm real fucking curious cause from where I'M standing it seems like there's about two fucking options. First one's that they told you what you have to do and you're too much of a fucking coward, or you just don't give a shit. And the second's that all your fucking weird shit, no, fuck it, EVERYTHING you are is just FUCKING worthless. Just as useless as-" For the briefest moment it almost seemed they would lose steam. But they had just enough left to get out the last two words. "As me."
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Quitter. I don't know what it wants. If I knew, I would- I would do it. Whatever it was. I promise. I didn't want-"
But Quitter wasn't interested in hearing it, cutting them off. "What have they said. Recently. Let's see if we can't put the fucking pieces together."
She hoped Quitter didn't notice her hesitation. "Just names."
"Whose." Quitter was inches away from Sixpack, bearing down on her. The size difference ceased to matter.
"Jaylen. NaN."
"The usual fucking suspects," spat Quitter.
"And..."
"And?"
"And me. My name. Sixpack Dogwalker."
Quitter cackled. It was a home for spite and cruelty. "They asked for you? After you let all this shit happen?"
"It's not my fault," muttered Sixpack, more to herself.
"What the fuck do they want you for, anyway? Why the fuck is it you?"
"You think I don't ask myself that? You think I don't ask myself that every single day, why me, I'm not even good, I'm not smart or resourceful. I wasn't even supposed to be alive. I took over someone's life because they stopped being dead and now I'm not him or me. All I am is what I can do for this god, and I don't even know what that is!"
It was the first time in a long time Sixpack had raised her voice. It kept Quitter silent for a few fleeting seconds. Then they shrugged.
"Maybe if the other guy was still around he'd know what to do."
"Yeah. I wish he was. I wish it was him instead of me."
That was what Sixpack intended to say. But it wasn't the sound that rang across the beach.
A voice entirely unlike hers, yet discernibly tied to it in some deep detail of timbre, spoke:
hi friends
Sixpack’s head spun. She clutched it as she fell to the ground, sand catching her fall, less soft than she’d thought it would be. The heel of her palm clutched one eye, shooting sparks through her vision as she pressured the retina. The other opened, and Sixpack looked up at where her body used to be. She blinked, trying to refocus. The sand she was gripping like a lifeline was behind where she’d been standing and a few feet off to the side. And where she’d been standing was - it was still her body. But it didn’t look like her. (Then how did she know it was hers? And then, who was she now?) Standing where she’d been was-
“Wyatt?”
Quitter’s face opened in surprise, vulnerable in a way that looked like muscle memory. A hand covered her mouth. The other hand extended outward, in slow motion, as if approaching a black hole. A sharp crackling filled the air, like hair being singed. Quitter’s hand didn’t falter.
“Is. Is it really-” This time they couldn’t force their way through the rest of the sentence.
it is Wyatt
The voice shot through Sixpack’s head like a bullet, like the disorienting feeling of someone blowing in your ear turned up to eleven. As the echo faded the noise still felt trapped inside her skull, radiating outwards like a migraine.
Quitter’s mouth pulled up into a smile despite themself. “I didn’t think I’d ever- But you’re really-” They clenched their eyes shut as their hand dropped to their side, averting their eyes, cheek tinged pink in the glow. “The team’s bad, dude. We- I couldn’t keep us together. No one could. And now she’s- everyone’s-” Quitter whipped their head around, intensity back in their glare. “And I can’t do shit about it! I can’t ever do shit! I just want to tear everything down around me so it stops getting worse! But I’m not strong enough to do it. I don’t know if anyone here is. But you are, right? You’re a god now, right? Help me get them back for what they did to you. I have to do something. Tell me what I can do.”
The form of Wyatt smiled. From the ground Sixpack felt it on her face like receiving an echo.
I have a plan
“You keep saying that,” muttered Quitter. “You keep saying that, but what is it? Do you not trust us? Are we not important enough? Or are you just bluffing? If you’re gonna do something then fucking DO it! Or at least tell us you can’t so I quit getting my fucking hopes up.”
Wyatt said nothing.
“You can’t do anything, can you?”
Wyatt said nothing.
“You’re just as useless as all of us, aren’t you.”
Wyatt said nothing.
“Fine. Whatever. I should’ve known better. I’ll find someone else. I’ll find something with real power. I’ll bring the world to its fucking knees. I won’t lose anyone ever again.”
Wyatt said nothing.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” screamed Quitter. “Say something back to me! Who are you talking to? You keep saying friends. Do you mean us? Me? Were we ever friends? Or did you just hate me like everyone else fucking does??”
Wyatt said nothing.
“Answer me, Wyatt!! Talk to me!!”
Quitter ran forward and slammed both her fists into Wyatt’s chest. Sixpack felt the impact directly, not echoed. Quitter was in front of her now, below her, staring at the sand. She was standing again. Disoriented, she glanced behind her. Nothing there. Had she always been standing here?
“Q- Quitter?”
They looked up. “Sixpack? You’re back? Then- Wyatt’s…”
“Yeah. Gone. I think.”
“Fuck. Fuck.” Quitter gripped the loose fabric of Sixpack’s jersey, twisting it in both hands. Sixpack wrapped them up in her arms, either out of reflex or yet more muscle memory. Quitter didn’t shrug her off, leaning in closer to her chest. And before long she could feel the wet warm stains of Quitter’s tears.
“I’m sorry,” said Sixpack. Her head was too light to think of anything else to say. Quitter didn’t seem to hear.
“Is this all part of your plan, Wyatt?” they spoke, muffled. “Does all this have to happen? Did you have to leave? Does everyone have to leave? Why does- Why does everyone have to leave?”
Sixpack had no answer. She clenched her eyes shut and asked for something, anything else to use her voice again, to set things right with a word.
Nothing came. The only sound remaining was that of the wind blowing back out to sea, returning to its home above the waves.
***
She couldn’t stay in Hawai’i.
York had been shelled right as she’d received the words of the Microphone.
Receiver.
Flickering.
Those were her new titles, boons granted her by movement on the idol board.
She felt unmoored in reality. Feelings she’d always held were now sublimated into a small square on her stats sheet.
She couldn’t stay in Hawai’i, and now reality itself condoned her cowardice.
Quitter was shelled a few weeks into season 9.
Sixpack hoped they’d find what they were looking for.
New answers to old questions.
She couldn’t stay in Hawai’i.
She was the one who begged to leave.
The Microphone obliged.
She was the one who’d begged to leave. So how could she return?
Sixpack moved to Dallas. For the first time in her life, when she looked out her window she could see no ocean.
***
Weeks later, a belated answer to her prayers:
have hope
Again, her voice. Not her words. How could she believe them? Sixpack smirked as the world ended, and then stopped ending.
Thanks a lot, Wyatt. Now I’m a hypocrite on top of everything else.
“How are the Steaks, by the way?” asked Sixpack. “That was their first championship win, yeah? Must be pretty excited.”
“Not there anymore.”
“No kidding?”
“Back on the Mechs.”
“Huh.” Sixpack leaned back in her seat. “Must’ve missed it. Overshadowed by your retirement and all. Everyone moves around too much these days.”
“Funny hearing you say that.”
“What, from the flickering?”
Dot nodded, finishing off their beer. Sixpack smiled.
“Never really felt like leaving the Steaks. It was quiet there. Nice bunch. Plus the food was great. Amazing barbecue. Full plate of ribs, bit of greens on the side. Nothing better.”
“Well. Sorry for taking you away from them.”
“Yeah. What the fuck, dude,” she grinned. Dot’s face showed a micromovement of amusement. Sixpack went to take another drink of her beer and found it already empty. Maybe she was looser than she realized. Despite her stature she was an unexpected lightweight.
“Something I realized the other day, actually,” she continued. “Season before we were traded, the Talkers won the championship with you on them. Then once you get to Dallas, the Steaks win. Very next season.”
“I’m good at the game,” said PolkaDot, like it was the most obvious explanation in the world.
“That you are. That you are.” She’d thought it was a funny little factoid, the way she’d barely missed both championships, the way it so cleanly led to one obvious interpretation. But somehow saying it out loud, it didn’t seem as amusing as Sixpack had thought it would. For the first time in the conversation she let the silence hang. She didn’t feel like filling it.
It took a while, but Dot eventually picked up the slack.
“Why did you invite me here?” they asked.
“What do you mean? Am I not allowed to catch up with old friends?”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to.”
For a second, Sixpack considered telling them about Quitter, how they’d annoyed her into leaving the house. But she figured PolkaDot had enough to deal with already.
“Let’s just say a little birdie told me.”
Dot frowned. “That’s not what that saying means.”
“Well. It is now.”
***
“See, I told you it’d be fun.”
“I’ve got no qualms admitting you were right.”
“Good. Because I was.”
“Sure. You were,” chuckled Sixpack. It was late when she’d got home, and she’d opted to flop down directly in bed, arms splayed behind her after she’d thrown off all her layers now that she was back safe in the warmth of her home. The show she’d usually be watching was going unwatched but she didn’t mind. It’d be on some streaming site or another by tomorrow. She could catch it then. If she felt like it. Maybe she wouldn’t.
“Hey, Sixpack.”
“What, Quitter.”
“Do you know what a manic pixie dream girl is?”
Sixpack blinked. “Not a clue.”
“Geez, I’ve gotta explain everything to you. Okay, have you seen Eternal Sunshine?”
“I mean, I lived in Hawai’i for a while. Is that close enough?”
“Booooooooo!” yelled Quitter, invisibly cupping their hands around their mouth to jeer. “You’re not funny, Sixpack! Boooooooooo!”
Sixpack hadn’t realized she’d told a joke.
“It’s a movie, dumbshit.”
“Oh.”
“Have you seen literally anything?”
“I was born like ten years ago exclusively to play Blaseball. Excuse me if I haven’t had a chance to catch up on all the pop culture you never stop referencing.”
“Hmmm, okay you’re excused. But only cause I like you so much.”
“I’m honored,” deadpanned Sixpack. “So what is this thing you’re talking about.”
“Oh YEAH. So a manic pixie dream girl is like. It’s this shitty trope that shitty dude writers use cause they can’t write girls to save their life. So in like romcoms and shit they tend to write their girls as like. ‘Omigawd I’m SO quirky I wear VINTAGE CLOTHES and listen to VINYL and I’m self destructive but also it’s so cute and it really just means I’m a free spirit, and I’m gonna devote all my fucking free spiritedness to breaking the lameass dude that the writers self-insert into out of the rut their life is in because I’m SO cute and quirky and my hair is a weird color.’ THAT’S a manic pixie dream girl.”
“Oh, okay, I know what you’re talking about.” Sixpack’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, are you saying you’re that to me?”
“No, don’t be stupid,” laughed Quitter. “I’m not a girl. If anything I’m your manic pixie dream they.”
“Jesus Christ,” moaned Sixpack. “I never asked for this, you know.”
“Neither do the shitty dudes, the manic pixie just shows up outta nowhere and drags them along.”
“Did you have dyed hair?”
“It turned white after the pods shit, I figure that’s close enough.”
“Give me a break.”
“Face it, Sixpack. I’m your manic pixie dream they. And you’re a shitty romcom protagonist.”
“As much as I hate it, your argument is airtight. I’m forced to agree.”
“Because I’m SO quirky.”
“Because you’re so quirky. Wait, does this mean we have to date?”
“I dunno, do you wanna?”
“If this whole thing has just been your weird way of flirting with me I should tell you it hasn’t worked even a little bit.”
“Harsh, dude.”
“Don’t take it personal. The death thing is sort of a dealbreaker.”
“So if I wasn’t dead you’d be all over me is what you’re saying.”
“Eh. Probably not.”
“I’m gonna die all over again, you’re so fucking mean to me, Sixpack.”
“You’re just lucky I’m putting up with this dumb bit.”
“You’re so fucking nice to me, Sixpack. If I was still alive I could see myself falling for you, honestly.”
“Yeah?” Sixpack let her eyes drift closed. She wasn’t used to talking this unguardedly. It was nice.
“Hey, I like tall femmes, fucking sue me for having a genius-level IQ. Like, don’t get me wrong, I’d still be settling in a major way. You’d have to buy me a ton of dinners to keep me around. I’m a luxury few can afford.”
“Right.”
“And it wouldn’t hurt if you lived up to your name a little bit more. Toned up a little.”
“I’m not conforming to your beauty standards,” said Sixpack. “I happen to love myself exactly as I am.”
“Oh hell yeah, self-confidence is SUCH a turn-on. You’re really giving it to me right now.”
“Being on the Lift poisoned your mind.”
“I just can’t stop getting my mind poisoned it seems like.”
“Honestly the fact that you’d be into me is probably a bad sign.”
“Oh no yeah, it totally is. You’re basically screwed. Sorry, bitch.”
“Damn. Looks like I won’t get with that girl from the Bachelor after all.”
Sixpack kept her face grim. Quitter didn’t say anything. Then, Sixpack cracked a grin. They burst out laughing at the same moment.
“Apropos of nothing,” said Sixpack when the laughter had subsided, “what exactly is your gender situation, anyway? If that’s cool.”
“Oh HELL yeah it is, bitch I’m trans, there’s literally nothing I love better than talking about gender shit.”
“Cool.”
“So like I’ve been pretty strictly they/them for like FOREVER, cause just like. Ugh, I mean I’m gonna sound like such a typical cis ally writing a nonbinary bitch right, but I do mean it when I say FUCK binaries, you know?”
“I’m not judging.”
“Like, I’m transfem and all but it’s pretty much entirely a way to feel at home in my shitass body, right? I didn’t sign up for all the fucking, social roles and shit. Dunno, it’s hard to describe body stuff to people who don’t already know.”
“I mean, I sort of get it, I think. The person I overwrote was a dude. I dunno, maybe it’s not really the same.”
“Oh shit this is a DEEP conversation apparently! Lay it on me sis, PLEASE tell me about your complex and deeply personal relationship with gender.”
Sixpack turned over onto her side. “When I used to bat. I would swing and I would remember what it was like to be him. But not like, having his mind and all, just. Being in that body. It felt gross all over. Like it stuck on my skin afterwards. Who knows.”
“Holy shit sis, are you sure you’re not trans? Because it sounds like you fucking get it get it. If I had hands I’d be snapping along up here. You’re a walking trans allegory.”
“Are these supposed to be compliments?”
“It’s SOLIDARITY, sis. I’m giving you your official honorary gendertrash badge. Your thigh-high socks are in the mail.”
“Thanks but no thanks. I’d rather go barefoot.”
“Oh yeah I’ve been meaning to ask but what the FUCK is up with you and not wearing shoes?”
Sixpack shrugged as best she could lying on her side. “Just got in the habit in Hawai’i, beaches and all.”
“Fair enough, sis.”
Sixpack tugged the blanket over herself as a passing car shone a moving light through the slats of the blinds covering the small bedroom’s only window. “Hey, listen, not that all the shitposting isn’t fun, but I’m tired as hell. Gonna try to get to sleep.”
“You tell Quitter to LEAVE? You throw them out like the Blaseball?? Jail for Sixpack! Jail for Sixpack for One Thousand Years!!!”
“I have literally no idea what you’re referencing. As usual.”
“You’re fucking infuriating, you know that?”
“I’ve been told. Mostly by you, come to think of it.”
“Whatever. Nah, I’ll let you get your shuteye. Night, Six.”
“Six?”
“Yeah, you know, like a nickname? That cool?”
“No, it is. Just surprised me.” Sixpack rolled back on her back. “You got a nickname you like?”
“Quits, usually. Think it’s cute. Not Q. That’s for relationships, and that ship has clearly sailed between us.”
“What a pity. Well.” Sixpack yawned. “Goodnight, Quits.”
“Yep! See you later, Si-”
Quitter’s exit cut them off midsentence, as usual. Sixpack laughed to herself.
Sleep came quickly.
to be continued