Work Text:
The curtains rise
The show has begun
The semi-centennial is upon them
Play ball
Goodwin Morin gasped, the first real breath of air she'd taken since being preserved seasons ago. She remembered being stolen from everything she knew, placed on a pedestal, and then nothing. How long had it been since she was sequestered away? What had she missed?
She could feel pieces of herself missing. They had carved off slivers of her to create imitations, puppets to dance around the league in her likeness, ones not meant to last more than a season. She wondered what her replicas saw.
She looked down to find herself not in Charleston Shoe Thieves teal and yellow, but grey and blue of the Vault Legends, her spear strapped to her back. She was being used for the entertainment of another capitalist. Again.
She ground her teeth and cursed the gods. When she had been taken, she swore to be the end of the Coin. And yet here she was, doing Her bidding. Ever since coming to this universe, her life here had been one big rerun of the one she had just escaped. One she was powerless to stop. Make money, get taken, be used as a pawn. Same as it ever was.
She took stock of the situation. There had to be something she could do with her limited time. The sky was rapidly changing, bending to the will of the boxes that imprisoned her. But there was a heaviness she could feel from the sun beyond. When the first player gets batted in, she feels a shift, the celestial body growing in size. It had been ages since the last time she stood in this position, but there was no mistaking it: here she stood, face to face with another dying star. She couldn't help but laugh. The rerun was true to the script.
If that was where they were, so be it.
She would bring it to its knees, just like the one before.
Except this time, it's death would mark the end of her oppressor.
She swore by it.
~~~~
She stood at the plate, arrow turned bat in hand. The boxes had long since departed, the sun ready to give at any moment. She stared not at the pitcher, but at an older man, wise beyond his years, standing at second base.
He had come here with a mission. He, too, was fed up with the league's antics. The way he stepped onto the field, instability shaking him to his core, wielding it like a weapon. His intent was unmistakable. If he couldn't stop the madness, he would die trying.
Chorby saw it before she did, pointing it out before their first at bat. They sympathized with his plight, but not enough to let him have what he came here for. Soul was tired of seeing people sacrifice themselves for this stupid game. She couldn't blame them for weeping when the counter got to 25, finally freeing them of their own seasons long instability and putting an end to any notions of self sacrifice. But Mora seethed, standing there at second, his agency stolen. The two locked eyes, twin flames on a mission. In that moment, they shared an unspoken message. They knew how they would end this.
Goodwin stretched a shadowed hand out against the glare of the sun, offering it to him.
And as Nicholas Mora left second, walking across the mound to take it in his, the unlikely pair watched as the world came undone at their hands.
