Chapter Text
Your name is PolkaDot Patterson.
…At least, you assume it is. Those two words are inscribed on a nameplate attached to the door of the room you woke up in, and that's all the information you have to go on.
The door next to you is labelled PolkaDot Zavala , though, which makes you pause and crane your neck towards the row of doors stretching out down the hall. Are you all PolkaDots? Is that some kind of a title, rather than a name? You breathe a sigh of relief when you see Axel Trololol written on a nearby door. That makes things less complicated, at least. Maybe PolkaDot is just a popular name.
“Where are we?” whispers a voice from the floor. You jump, startled, as your shadow uncurls at your feet and stretches out with what seems to be curiosity. You don't know the answer to that question, or to most of the questions that are rushing through your own mind, but you know, somehow, that shadows don't usually do this.
“I-I don't know,” you manage. “Are you the other PolkaDot?”
“I guess?” They don't sound very certain, but you're not very certain of yourself, either. Or of how much of you even is yourself, now.
Before you can get to any other questions, someone else turns the corner, their shadow following like shadows are supposed to, flat and predictable. This new person blinks an uncountable number of eyes at you, which you think is the kind of thing you should find unsettling, but somehow they seem to give off a comforting presence.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” they say. Their gaze shifts to Zavala, who’s trying to stretch out towards them even though you’re standing still, and they continue without missing a beat. “Both of you. Even better. That makes all of us.”
Us being the people who belong to the names on the doors, apparently. Fourteen of you, in total. You’ve counted every door by now.
“Do you know why we’re here? And how we even got here in the first place? And who we are?” Zavala demands in a voice that barely carries down the hall.
“Everyone’s been asking those questions, and none of us seem to know the answers, but we’re trying to figure it all out together,” the person with all the eyes says, motioning for you both to follow. “I’m Boyfriend. Boyfriend Monreal.”
“I’m PolkaDot Patterson, apparently,” you say. “And this seems to be PolkaDot Zavala.”
“I can talk for myself!” Zavala snaps, sounding a little louder.
“Right, of course. Sorry.”
You’ve only been here two minutes, and you’ve already managed to offend your own shadow. Way to go, PolkaDot Patterson.
Maybe you haven't offended them too much, though. As Boyfriend leads you both around the corner into a room full of strangers, a shadowy hand reaches out and brushes against yours, a half-solid touch, as confused and desperate as you feel. You do your best to twine your own fingers in Zavala’s and hold on as tight as you can; their hand keeps slipping through yours, but always finds its way back.
You don't know who any of these people are. You don't know who PolkaDot Zavala is, and you don't even know who PolkaDot Patterson is, but you know you have each other, and you have to trust that.
Zavala seems to shrink back a little once you both scan the room and realize that nobody else’s shadows are moving independently, but then they straighten up again, defiant, wanting to show that they really are their own person.
Many of the others look human, or at least human-adjacent, like Boyfriend with all their extra eyes. Some are more unusual-looking, like the appropriately named Whit Steakknife, who has an actual knife for a head; Leach Ingram, who seems to be a skeleton, and Eduardo Ingram, who has fluffy white wings sprouting from his back. Turns out you and Zavala aren't the only two who share a name. The Ingrams --
Oh. They already seem quite well acquainted with each other. You look away, feeling awkward.
“Apparently they knew each other in a past life, and they're married, and that's all they remember,” Boyfriend whispers to you.
You understand even less about your situation already.
The common room is an open space encompassing a large kitchen, a dining table big enough to seat fourteen people, and a relatively cozy-looking area full of couches. There's a large TV up against one wall, and it only seems to be showing something called blaseball . No games yet, but on the screen is an overview of the teams and their rosters, revealing that you're the ones who will have to play the games. Apparently the fourteen of you are a team called the Kansas City Breath Mints. This place... is it a city?
According to the roster, both you and Zavala are pitchers, each with half a star next to your names. You suppose that makes sense. Neither of you are very strong on your own, but together, you're a whole person.
You start exploring the room further. Zavala makes an effort to go in the complete opposite direction, testing the limits of how far apart you can get. (Right now, the answer seems to be “not very”.)
There's a DVD player with a few movies, all seemingly about blaseball. Similarly, there are a couple of game consoles, and every game is about blaseball. There's a bookshelf, and every book is about blaseball. A few board games are up on the top shelf; you wonder if even the chess pieces are modelled like blaseball players.
“No cricket?” Marquez Clark asks as he takes it all in.
“What the hell is cricket?” Leach demands.
“It’s…” He frowns. “Hmm. It felt like something familiar, for a moment. Kind of like blaseball. Maybe I dreamed it?”
You're not entirely convinced this isn't all a dream.
You flip through one of the books, hoping it might give you some information about... well, anything, but it seems to be purely a narrative about people playing blaseball. Where did they come from? Why are they playing? You don't find any answers.
Boyfriend’s found a rulebook, and everyone starts to gather around them as they read from it.
“Each season of blaseball shall last 99 games. In the case of…” they trail off, frowning.
“In case of what?” someone whose name you've already forgotten pipes up nervously.
“It doesn't say. A lot of this seems to be redacted or something.”
They read on anyway. The tone of the text unsettles you; it feels as if it’s been written by some higher power, likely whatever entities brought you here. Gods? You shudder a little at the thought, and Zavala drifts a bit closer.
There isn’t even much information in there about how to actually play blaseball. Instead, there's a whole section dedicated to elections and the things that get voted on, which you don't really understand. Who gets to vote? Everything that's mentioned about the actual game seems annoyingly obvious. The team with the most runs will win the game. The pitcher must throw the ball.
You think you can manage that last one, at least.
Further exploration reveals nothing much more than a few bathrooms and supply closets -- and then, most notably, a large set of doors leading to what turns out to be, of course, a blaseball field. Beyond the floodlights shining down on the play area, it's pitch-black, nothing but utter darkness as far as the eye can see (or, more accurately, can’t see).
If you're really in a place called Kansas City, you don't seem to have any access to the rest of it. Unless this is all a city is? You’re not actually sure.
Nothing to do but figure out how to play blaseball, you suppose. You work on pitching with the other pitchers, which is to say, you all throw the ball, with varying degrees of success. Axel and Oscar, with their two stars each, seem to be doing the least bad, and try to help the rest of you out, though Axel’s advice mostly consists of him loudly declaring “Watch how I do it!” and then throwing the ball as hard as he can, sometimes not particularly close to where you think the strike zone must be.
Leach doesn't seem concerned with either giving or taking advice. She's throwing wild pitches all over the place and cackling as Eddie cheers her on. At least she's having fun?
You're having fun too, even though you can't seem to get the ball to go where you want it to most of the time. Either the batters hit it, or it veers so far off course that they don't bother swinging. But sometimes you float one past them and have them swing and miss, and feel an unfamiliar glow of pride in your chest. Maybe you're not very good at this, but you're learning.
Zavala’s learning, too. You're surprised at how easily those shadowy fingers curl around a ball. They don't pitch well, exactly, but they seem to be doing a bit better than you. Or a bit less bad, at least.
“Are your hands becoming more solid?” you ask, curious.
They reach out to you again, and their fingers go right through you.
“Maybe it just works for pitching.” They turn away, throw another pitch. Try to hide their disappointment.
“I'm sure you'll work it all out. We only just got here, after all.”
“Yeah, and where did we come from? I doubt my body made any more sense there, if this even counts as a body at all.” Zavala tries to kick at the ground, and then grumbles in additional frustration as they realize they don’t even really have feet, just shadowy legs that sprout from where you stand.
“Maybe you could show me how you threw that pitch?” you suggest, trying to cheer them up. “I don't think my grip is quite right.”
Zavala shrugs. “I dunno. I just pick up the ball and throw it. I'm not doing anything special.”
Do they even care? You're really enjoying pitching. It's what you both seem to have been put here to do, after all. If it's all they can do half-decently, shouldn't they enjoy it?
You lapse into silence, trying to focus on your own pitches. You're sure you'll both figure it out. What does it mean that your own shadow is a better pitcher than you, though? It's not that you resent them for it, but -- shouldn't you be doing better than you are? You have real hands and a real body, but you don't feel like you’re a real pitcher, not yet.
You've got a bit of time to prepare, at least. You're third in the rotation, and get to spend your team’s first two games sitting on the bench, trying to study the opposing pitchers. Zavala seems more interested in talking to your teammates than trying to prepare for their own game, but maybe they don't need it.
Leach and Oscar both lose their games to a team called the Boston Flowers. Neither of them seem to mind, though, and neither does the rest of your team; everyone’s just having fun. All the same, when it's finally your turn to take the mound, you can't help but be nervous. The darkness surrounding the field means that if there are any eyes on you from far away, at least you can’t see them, but that does little to reassure you.
Fortunately, your teammates do a lot, in their own ways.
“Just do your best!” Boyfriend says. “We'll all be cheering for you, no matter what.”
Leach shrugs when you ask her for advice. “Throw the ball and have a good time. That’s what I did.”
“You can't be that bad,” Zavala adds. “And even if you are, well, none of us are very good either.”
You try anyway. You try your best, because the only thing you know about why you're here is that you're here to pitch, and so you're going to pitch the best you can.
Unfortunately, your best kind of sucks.
It ends up 16-5 for the Flowers. Not even close. It's not the losing that you mind, it's just... well, you walked a lot of batters, gave up a lot of home runs. You wanted to do better. For your team. For yourself.
They don't seem bothered at all, though. They're all smiles, congratulating you on finishing your first game, saying you'll get them next time, even offering to practice with you in a way that makes it seem like they just want you to have fun with them, not minding if you'll actually get better.
You try not to mind, too.
Zavala also loses her game, but doesn't seem interested in spending extra time on the field and practicing like you want to. She seems to think it doesn't matter. After all, nobody’s stars have changed. Maybe they can't .
You don't particularly like that thought.
Axel’s the only one of you who wins their first game, which just seems to make him more obnoxious, but you trail around him during practices sometimes anyway, trying to absorb some of his pitching ability. Zavala usually tries to go as far as possible in the other direction, and you suppose you can't really blame her.
No matter how much you try, though, you can't seem to replicate anyone else's success. Leach and Oscar both win the second games they pitch, but you just end up with another loss. At least that one was a lot closer. You can't really complain; it's a step in the right direction.
Zavala wins the second game she plays, too, leaving you as the only Mints pitcher with an entirely losing record. It's still early, though, of course. It doesn't mean anything. As she steps off the mound, you get the feeling that she’s side-eyeing you despite not having any visible eyes, as if she expects you to be... jealous, or something. You're not. You're proud, and you tell her as much. She tells you you'll get it next time, as if she really does believe in you as much as you believe in her.
You don't get it next time.
You lose to a dog . You don't feel great about this initially, but then you get to pet him afterwards, and, well, he's a very good boy, and he clearly had fun out there, and you did too, and isn't that what matters? Your teammates still don't seem disappointed in you.
All the same, you resolve to work even harder. You spend more of your spare time out on the field, throwing pitches that still rarely seem to go where you want them to. By necessity, Zavala joins you in some way or another, sometimes even hitting, which she seems to have more fun with. You don't think you'd be particularly good at that, either. Even if you were, you'd rather be pitching; you can't help but love it, even if you aren't any good.
The two of you can never get too far from each other. Enough to have privacy when you need it, but you're still connected, as everyone is to their shadow. Of course, though, Zavala doesn't exactly play by normal shadow rules. She can drift into other rooms -- she has her own room, after all, and you figure they put it next to yours for a reason; she couldn't go much further than that, though she's been working on stretching the connection. You know it’s more frustrating for her than you. She may be a better player, but you get to have the physical body, get to be the one who doesn't have to struggle just to eat breakfast or high-five a teammate.
You have an argument with her, one day. Looking back on it later, you're never able to remember what it was even about, but you can't forget the way she screamed that she wished you could just leave her alone for once, and tried to slam the door to her room, but her arm went right through it instead, only making her angrier.
You thought about slamming the door for her, which you knew she’d hate even more. Instead, you went to your own room, and closed your own door quietly -- which she probably hated, too; a reminder that you can easily close a door any way you want -- and sat there until it was time to leave for the game together and you both ended up apologizing.
It's not like that, though, most of the time. It's nice, knowing that when either of you can't sleep, she’ll just phase through the wall into your room, and you can talk to each other about anything and nothing until you finally drift off. It just feels right , like you've known her forever, like you're meant to be going through life together, even if it’s not always easy.
You spend a lot of your spare time practicing. More than anyone else. Maybe more than Zavala would like, but they're getting better at stretching out further away from you, so if they don't want to hang around on the field, they can at least go talk to someone else in the dugout -- and people do tend to show up just to talk to them, fortunately. You'd feel bad about stealing them away from the team.
It’s not as if there are many other places to hang out, though.
Sometimes you think the gods got it all wrong, when they gave you the body. You feel more like a shadow. You're the quiet one, the awkward one, the one who still hasn't clicked with so many teammates in the same way that Zavala has. It's easy for you to say, you suppose, but you don't think you'd mind too much if it was you. At least then you'd have an excuse for being the way you are.
It's not that you don't feel like you belong here, though, of course. You love your teammates, love how they don't treat you and Zavala like you’re just one person, how they cheer so loudly for you even when you have a terrible game, because they care . You want to get better, for them and for yourself. You don't know if you can ever overcome your stars (or lack thereof) but you work at it anyway, keep throwing pitches, keep trying to visualize that elusive rectangle. You'll get it someday. You hope you will. You have to win a game sooner or later, right?
Zavala’s in the dugout, talking to Leach. You don’t know what they’re talking about. You’re getting good at tuning people out and focusing on the pitching, even if you’re not getting good at the pitching. You don’t want to eavesdrop, anyway.
You almost don't notice Boyfriend until they're right in front of you.
“Oh!” You look up in surprise. “Hello. Did you want to hit?” It's a lot more fun than just throwing pitches at the wall.
“Sure,” they say amicably, picking up a bat.
Your first pitch goes wild, and you sigh, grabbing another ball out of the bucket. You go through a lot of them.
“You spend a lot of time out here, huh?” Boyfriend fouls the next one off. Could be worse.
“I enjoy it.”
“Of course you do.” They smile as the next pitch sails wide. “And I'm glad. But I hope you don't feel pressured to work this hard. We’re not a very good team, and that's okay.”
“I like to work hard.” Swing and a miss. You cheer inwardly. “I was brought here to pitch, and so I pitch. You all have your own hobbies, right? Mine is pitching.”
They blink several eyes at you. “It's a pretty convenient hobby, isn't it?”
Your next pitch bounces into the dirt. “Well, it's not as if there’s much else to do here. Watch TV. Read the same few books over and over. Cook food and hope people like it. Play board games and watch everyone get into an argument about it.”
They raise an eyebrow. “Right, because you never get in any arguments about it.”
“Axel was cheating ,” you protest.
Boyfriend laughs. “Maybe so. I'm not complaining about you arguing, anyway. Goodness knows we all do it! It's inevitable, we can't really escape each other. But when all we have is each other, it's better to spend time together, don't you think? Even if things get a little chaotic sometimes.”
Another ball smacks off their bat and drifts into foul territory.
“What is this, some kind of intervention?”
“Just a little chat,” they say innocently. “I admire your work ethic, I really do. But don't forget we're here for you even when you're not pitching. Especially Zavala.”
You glance over to the dugout. Zavala’s not looking at you, deep in their own conversation. They look fine. Happy. Aren't you both out here enjoying your own things?
“Is this your elaborate way of saying I should come to board game night, and argue with Axel so you don't have to do it?”
You fire off your best pitch yet -- and they hit it, send it flying far, far up, until it's totally disappeared into the darkness. Zavala and Leach cheer. Oh, well. You dip your head to Boyfriend, who shrugs modestly.
“Just think about it,” they say, setting their bat down and walking away.
...Well. You suppose you could use a break for a while.
Eight games.
That's how long it takes you. You step onto the mound to start your eighth game with no wins under your belt, and then you pitch the best game of your life so far. It's not a decisive victory, but you win 4-3, which is at least a decisive improvement on a 16-5 loss. It was even against the Flowers again. You finally showed them you're not just a terrible pitcher.
...Well, honestly, you don’t think they’ve ever taken much notice of you either way. That’s okay. You weren’t trying to be noticed, just trying to pitch well, and you did, and you’re happy about that. Your team is there to surround you with congratulations and love, and Zavala is first in line, saying they knew you'd get it someday. You won, you finally won -- but you had fun, and don't you always?
Nothing changes, after that. Your team doesn't treat you any differently now that you're no longer officially a complete loser. They're not in this to win, really -- though it's not as if anyone fully understands why they're in it at all. Why are you in this, personally, or at least why do you want to be? It's not to win. It's to pitch. You know that.
All the same, winning for your team felt like you were finally doing what you were meant to do in a way they deserve.
As first seasons go, you consider it a good one overall. You don't improve much, but you win a few more games. You're not single-handedly holding your team back or anything; really, you're all just muddling your way through it and having as good of a time as you can have in this place.
Though the Mints aren't close to making the playoffs, at least you finish in the middle of the division. Your last series is against the Flowers, and it's a pretty dramatic turnaround from the start of the season; this time it's the Mints who sweep. You're still looking at the scoreboard when you step off the mound. 13-7 in your team's favour. Sure, you won’t be in the postseason, but you pitched a good game and ended on a high note, and you can be proud of that.
There's nothing left for you to do now but sit back and watch the playoffs on TV (the Pies win, a team from the other league who you haven't even played), waiting for the election. You're still not sure who's out there voting, deciding your fates. Maybe you’ll never find that out, but at least you’re going to find out the results soon.
You’re sitting on Zavala’s bed, leaning against the wall, knees pulled up to your chest. They’re sprawled out on their back, head hanging off the edge, shadowy gaze turned toward the ceiling. You should both be sleeping, you know, but you’re wide awake, thinking about what tomorrow might bring.
“Do you think that if I get the Max Out Pitcher blessing, it'll give me a body?” they say finally.
You hadn't thought about that. You’d thought about getting it yourself. You should have thought about that.
“I mean,” Zavala continues. “I know it's a long shot. Twenty teams, five pitchers on each team... but if it does happen…”
Yes, you need it more in terms of performance, but what if it could help them feel like more of a person? Even if you think they’re already very good at being one.
“You're already a better pitcher than me even without a body.”
“Not better enough!”
“More than better enough, believe me.”
They try to shove you, laughing, but their shadowy hand goes right through you. Those fingers still haven't mastered much more than holding a blaseball.
Zavala flops backward again. “I know you want it too, so can we at least agree that Axel shouldn't get it? He seems to think it's going to turn him into a car.”
“Axel has no idea what he's talking about.”
“Well, duh.”
Not that the two of you really know what he’s talking about, either. You're not entirely sure what the point of a car is. It's a big metal thing with wheels, you know that, you've got a vague picture of it in your head, but what does it do?
Nothing relating to blaseball, certainly. You don't know exactly what “maxing out” might do to a person, either, but it sounds powerful. None of you are good pitchers. It's exactly the kind of thing your team needs.
“I hope you get it,” you say, and mean it as much as you can.
You're all gathered around the TV in the common room to watch the election together, settled into your familiar spots. Leach and Eddie snuggled up together on the love seat. Boyfriend in the centre of the biggest couch, teammates piling around them, everyone jostling a bit in their quest for the best view of the TV. You curled up on a corner couch, Zavala next to you as always.
There's a nervous-looking kid on the screen reading out the results. Apparently he’s the commissioner, but he doesn't seem to have much more of an idea about what's going on than you do. He announces something about solar eclipses and incinerations, and the room goes deadly silent for the briefest of moments before everyone starts talking all at once.
“The forbidden book? What's that?”
“Why would anyone open it?”
“ Incinerated? ”
“ Jaylen Hotdogfingers? ”
You think that last one might have been said by you. You never met Jaylen, but you watched her on the highlight reels all the time, marvelling at how easy pitching seemed for her, how her very presence commanded attention. You’d tried so hard to be like her, to imitate her windup, to get those strikeouts, but of course, you could never come close to her ability.
And now she's -- she's dead?
The Commissioner is reading out the blessings, and you're only half paying attention until you hear your team name, and then your own name, and your head snaps up.
“Max Out Pitcher blessed the Kansas City Breath Mints,” he says. “PolkaDot Patterson's pitching stats will be maxed out.”
You? Your pitching stats? Maxed out? It really happened? You should be celebrating, you wanted this, but -- but you also wanted Zavala to get it, and you definitely wanted Jaylen to not be dead, though you didn't realize that was a thing that needed wanting.
Your team is jumping up to congratulate you anyway, and Zavala is saying oh, you're gonna be a big shot now, huh , amazed and proud and probably more than a little jealous too, and --
and then you become a supernova, your world exploding into a thousand different colours of blinding light, and your scream seems to echo in every direction at once, and even then you don't think anyone hears it. The power of liquid stars is coursing through your veins, burning you from the inside out. Is this what Jaylen felt? Are you dying too? How can you possibly survive something like --
The world cools all at once, snaps into focus in a way it never has before. You can see -- well, not everything , you try to see beyond your prison and for a moment you almost get a glimpse before you’re pushed away, but -- but -- you can see so much , you can see that rectangle above the plate, and you understand exactly how to place your pitches now. How could you have missed it before? It's so obvious.
You turn to Zavala, try to explain it, but it's like looking through a tunnel into some distant world you're no longer a part of. She’s calling out to you, reaching out a hand, screaming your name from impossibly far away, and up close, your name rings in your ears as the commissioner says it again.
“The Baltimore Crabs stole the best pitcher in the league, PolkaDot Patterson, from the Kansas City Breath Mints.”
You desperately reach for her, but you’re reaching with so many hands now, reaching with hands that have never held hers, hands that want to push this all away and grip a blaseball.
The tunnel closes up, and Zavala is gone.
Your team is gone.
Your old life is gone.