Work Text:
i
It is autumn in Anchorage, and you haven't felt the wind this bitter since you were a child. The snow begins to drift down from darkened skies that reflect the own despair that seems to be boiling your blood. You've gone up to home plate, feet sparking in the dirt and charring what patches of fresh grass that are left after summer. There is fire in your eyes and in your skin, and it melts what compassion you have left for your own team. You've heard the rumors, this is your final game here. Whether they like it or not.
You leave behind the charred remains of those you love in Alaska, and then you move on. Eventually, the deaths begin to blur together, your own mortality rate has skyrocketed but you still remember the names of everyone that has entered the Hall because of you. Little ritualistic things here and there, the ninth day sending final prayers to whatever god that isn't Her to keep the teams safe. You walk, and the winter ferns and evergreen saplings crumble to ash against your touch. You can't see the light anymore, all that's left is soot and rot as you roam.
They are safe from you when you are cursed with Force. At the end of every season, for some ungodly, horrifying reason, you are blessed with Ego. Don't they know what will happen? You're not sure that you know either, and the thought of it clutters your head and sinks you into despair. You never wanted this, never wanted this brilliance or fire or gold. And when the time comes, when the end is approaching, you breathe. Icarus, spread your burning wings and witness the end of everything that has caused you harm. They're finally safe from you, locked away.
iii
He shuffles through papers at his desk, the quiet din of office lights keeping his mind focused on the task at hand. The Commissioner's work is never over, not when things are getting worse and worse as time marches forward. They are angry at him, curse him and the gods for meddling with their affairs, and some days he's not even sure if he's right or wrong for what he does. But he can't stop, not now. The Book, The Shelled One, it's all just little inconveniences to him. Just one more day at his desk is all he needs.
It's starting to get worse. The so-called minor inconveniences are now cluttering his mind, driving him to consider options that weren't even conceived before. Gods are rising and making themselves known, when as far as he can remember, there weren't that many. And even if there were, the gods had never had any sort of physical presence when it came to the splort. But he could be wrong, he hasn't been feeling the best as of late. His blood seems to flicker at his desk, and he's not sure if he can do anything but wait out the coming storm.
The storm hits during a scheduled reshuffle of the League itself. Court orders, fines and charges take over his mind and he panics often, paranoid and irrationally angry at the others. He knows something is coming, something beyond his own control. Whispers from the dead, blank stares from the others in the office, he isn't able to take it and snaps at every opportunity he gets. He is equally aware of his boss, watching his every move like a hawk. His life ends in flames, like so others have ended under his time, in a small room in the desert.
iiii
The next one seems better, at least. The fans seem to enjoy him, and he's nothing but smiles and sunshine. There's not much he can do that relates to his work, right now. Not when things are calm, and when games aren't running at the time. They're certain he'll be a great Commissioner, kind and polite and willing to be everyone's best friend. You're certain that this won't last long, as you tick on your fingers the days he has survived up till this point. There's nothing else you can do when they announce what's to come for the League.
They're all excited, flitting around like ants on the field, and you can see him there nervously twirling his bat on the ground. The first one to ever take the field and participate, so they say. He looks like a five course meal to whatever gods above that dictate the rules, and within a blink of an eye, he's gone, somewhere above the smell of petrichor and coffee. They grieve for him, and they don't quite understand what has happened when just a few days later, another comes and takes his place. Some of them are upset, but they'll live.
iiiii
His eyes are cold as he stares out the window. He doesn't agree with the gods and how they run the game, but what can he do? He's just the face of the League, he has no real power behind anything. All he can do is sit, watch and wait for a sign that things are getting better. But the sign never comes, and things don't get better. They just get more. More teams, more mechanics, more stress on his shoulders to keep the entire league up on its feet. But then the sharks come, and he can't do anything.
It's all downhill from there. He can't stop the attacks, and the players are looking worse for wear each day that he decides to look out that window. Eventually, he stops looking out the window, because he can't take it anymore. He's there when the sun implodes on itself, staring you down with eyes that scream panic and confusion. The Boss says nothing, and tries to keep everything in order. It doesn't work. They're getting angry, all of them. Fans and players alike coming in arms to end it once and for all, and you see him lead the charge.
His hands crackle with fuschia as the visible energy splinters from the Microphone, and he raises his fist toward the sky above. There is fire in his eyes, more than you ever would've thought possible for someone so far removed from you. Maybe it was always there, but maybe it wasn't. Maybe seeing you has made him realize that he needs to step up. You're on the front lines, you help lead the charge to Her. And your eyes turn to ice as you approach the god. You both understand what needs to be done in order to save them.
i iiiii
You two meet at the charred, melted remains of gilded form at the center of it all. Staring each other down in a way that makes the others quiet down their celebration. You think he pities you. He probably does, and always will. You turn away first, shuffling back to whatever team will take you this time. You glance back to where he stood and all you can smell is ozone and iron. He is gone, and soon, you will be too. Time will continue to go on. It is summer in Hades, and you spread your wax wings proudly.