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Good morning, Wyatt Mason VII.
Except, there's no real discernable way to tell time when you're essentially trapped in radio static, is there? It's always dark, all the time. Faint buzzes of light come and go here, and all you can see is grey outlines when you stick your hands up to your eyes to try one more time, one last time to see if you're still solid.
Wya77 had been alone for what felt like months, days, decades. Time blurred in the Static, and sometimes it felt like not a second had passed since it accidentally echoed its double (original?) into static. Mostly, it wandered through the noise, trying to make sense of the small wire that turned around its wrist like a bracelet every time it lifted up its arms, a violent magenta buzz that filled the young Mason with an urge to keep moving.
At least the Static wasn't so bad, not really. Being pulled through the Rift hurt worse, in it's own opinion. It didn't get a chance to see another opinion of what this felt like, but having all of your molecules solidly form into a ball of sun-spotted energy and ejected onto the nearest blaseball plate in Utah wasn't exactly pleasant, per se. The short week that it had spent in that area was more than enough to compensate for the fact it's arrival was an odd, painful one.
Even if those memories faded over time, Wya77 would never be able to forget how the Sunbeams had welcomed it, had made it feel comfortable, and home. Those memories were one of the only things keeping it going, keeping it whole instead of succumbing to the Static like it had seen so many before it did.
It seemed almost lost in thought, mumbling to itself into the fuzzy void in front of it, before something clicked in its head. It's chin snapped upwards, eyes flaring open ahead at the sight of a magenta light in the distance. Before it could do anything, it found its blood had begun to buzz again, teeth chattering like radio waves as its heart seemed to spark and restart.
Wya77 soon found its feet to be moving on their own, magenta arcs of light racing through its veins to its heart and mind, staggering footsteps lurching forward on shoes that used to be strapped to wheels in one form or another. A dull light seemed to echo ahead of them, something bright and burning and somehow also familiar at the same rate, before it hit the young Wyatt’s mind. It was almost exactly like the Rift that had pulled it and the rest of the lonely fragments of Wyatts Mason into the plane of existence they had originally formed from.
It's feet had carried it to this place, from the dark buzz of the static and smoke into a place that seemed more calm. More quiet than the place it had left from. Clutching the wire in its hand, it stepped forward, enveloped by the light of the Rift.
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The sun was a bit cooler than it normally was. That, and the odd sort of feeling in it's mouth are what it noticed first. They say the first thing you'd notice being in someone else's body is your teeth not being yours. What came soon after was the swing of its arms, bat in hand, as the contact of the ball sent a clear shock through its head. It watched the ball, going and then gone.
The crowd in the stadium began to roar, a joyous feeling that it remembered from it's time on the Sunbeams. And it began to run, run all the way to home plate, hair strewn messily under it's golden cap, sunkissed jersey shining in all of the light’s brilliance. And it looked ahead with sparkling magenta eyes to the team awaiting it, all dressed in the appropriate away jerseys of the Hellmouth Sunbeams.
“Lucky, that was amazing!”
“Hey, Ochoa, great hit kid.”
The adrenaline started to die down, and it quickly stammered out something, inadvertently tossing a pair of six-sided dice into the air and catching them in it's open palm. 22 and -15. How did that even happen, it wonders as the pips clearly show those numbers, somehow. It didn’t matter, anyhow.
Where they were, who they were with, it felt home to it in so many indescribable ways. The Sunbeams sprawled out in front of them, and they trotted over on rabbit’s feet towards the rest of its team, bat in hand, sun high in the sky above Yellowstone.
Those two years were something glorious and filled with the hope of a new dawn for Lucky Ochoa, each day swinging around a bat like it was nothing. Each night tossing the dice with their teammates, no matter what day it was or what hardships went by, the predictable number that showed up on the die's faces gave comfort. Seven, seven, seven. Somehow, every time the dice rolled.
The poker clubs, roaming the city with Dagger and Tycho at its side, it was like a dream that it never thought would happen again, so longingly familiar and far away. Those nights brought comfort to Lucky, even when they stayed up past the morning sun. Late nights, and even later afternoon celebrations after a win with it's team, it was almost too good to be true.
And too good it was indeed. It was bliss, in every meaning and sense of the word, for that small slice within the greater universe. But the elections came too quickly, and with a blink of unwavering, tear-filled eyes, Fozzy Otterman was gone. Into the Static, charged to the Microphone, never to be seen again. Lucky and Tycho cried heavily that night, and went to bed late like usual.
And just like that, Wya77 woke up again.
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The ringing in Justice Newton's ears didn't seem to go away, though that could've been boiled down to the acoustics of the deer skull it wore atop its face to hide magenta eyes and curly brown hair that otherwise spelled something off about it. As it leaned against the wall of the saloon, it sighed, and a long trail of glowing smoke in odd colors rose from under its unfamiliar teeth.
It had always been in this small, dusty town, where ghouls and ghosts seemed to run rampant from a rather obvious necromancer holed out at the edge of town. It knew better though, since the time it had woken up under the brackish sky of the Hellmouth burning a hole in everything it saw fit to till now, when it rested between games, scales at its side when it wasn't batting with them.
Batting for the team it grew to love just as much as the last, shooting side-eyed glances to other teams players in knowing looks that spelled out incomprehensible messages for whoever was caught eavesdropping, colored smoke pouring from under the skull when it hit dingers like it was nothing. It found that it lived for evenings like these, after one of the rarer games where they actually won.
The other Sunbeams were inside, laughing and having a wonderful time with each other's company, even if the likes of Grant had been tossed weird looks by the barkeep. It didn't matter. This was their home, their own Hellmouth to belong to and be a part of. The doors creaked open, and nearly silent footsteps attached to a bony arm settled next to Justice.
"Heya there, Newton. Are you doing alright? Seem to be acting a bit off-kilter lately, so I just wanted to check up."
Lurch Mondavi sighed softly after hearing no response, and itched the back of their head. It was never too fond of speaking either way, so Lurch figures it's a bit redundant to try and talk. He put his arm out, patting Justice on the shoulders.
"You did a stand-up job today, kid. Keep it up."
The undead walked back inside. Justice's knees began to wobble a bit, then it slid to the floor of the patio, panting. The wire around it seemed to tighten, and it lifted up a hand to readjust it's hat. The seasons came, and went. The small journal Justice kept was filling up more and more frequently, more aggressively as the time towards the second elections drew nearer and nearer.
It knew what was about to come. It couldn't stop it, after all, it was just along for the ride. Yanked around by the Microphone to wherever it pleased to take it. It knew what was to come the day the sky ripped open with Static, when Pyra was inconsolable as she howled to the winds that took Lurch out of this world and into the Charge.
And with a final, choking breath, Wya77 came to on a boat, much larger than any it'd ever seen before.
Sprawling across the sweltering hot horizon was a sea of fire. And it would not be permitted to stay.