The world comes back. That's the best way to put it, I guess. It was as if I woke from a deep sleep, but I got no rest; I wasn't sure if I had been for an instant or a century, but I chose to believe it was an instant because I was afraid the opposite was true. I'm standing, which is weird, in a maintenance corridor, which is not. The walls are full of pipes (normal) that are cold and silent (weird). The end of the tunnel is near, and I know the open space outside it. Groggily I walk out to turn the corner to see the stadium. The lights are off, emergency LEDs dimly showing the outline of the buildings around me. Above me is the open I know and love and below me is the stone so well trod. It feels like the sun's about to warm the horizon, peeking up and coloring the blues of this twilight with the warm pinks of dawn, but I know the sun doesn't shine here and intuit the sunlamps are offline. I want to smell coffee and hear a train rumble in its tracks, I want to hear the whisper of a thousand outfits and feel the sleepy anticipation of a thousand souls but there's only me and the trains are frozen on their tracks (there's one right there, not even in the station)
I found myself gravitating towards the stadium, and suddenly I felt the rough stiffness of coveralls, where I thought the softness of pajamas was a moment ago: I was dressed for a work I didn't think I knew but felt as if I could. The fabric was a familiar sensation, comforting in its discomfort, reminding me to take them down the street to my neighbor and trade some knitting skill for some sewing and line them with something nicer but also reminding me that yes, I do know this work and here I was, at back entrance 6 and here was the doorpad and here was my hand and now the long hallway and now the office-cum-locker room where we posted our wishlist and divvied it out, claiming the nice jobs and working together on the nasty to make their pain bearable. I remember this and I remember being afraid when I thought to put some work hours here as well as in… somewhere else (why can I remember blaseball but not the other?); I remember fearing the press and desire of the crowds and its power, worried working here meant I'd feel the pull of Spectating more strongly and get sucked into the Being and Participating and Cheering and—but it actually made it easier, weakened its power. I could be supporting The Splort a way better for me, for my body. (I remember this, but I'm also more afraid now of a new thought: why is maintaining blaseball so important to me, to the core? The thought lingers, but in a guilty way, as if the air is afraid of me asking)
I flicked familiar switches, and got familiar light in response; the core was quiet but there was still power here. Nothing was dusty but everything had an air of disuse. I got to the main bank and flip the switches for maintenance mode lights. I hear the clunk and thrum and those huge lamps (yet so small and weak compared to the full stadium lights) kicked on, bathing the stadium in warm, dim light and causing stark shadows to leap into the corridor I stood in. I walked out onto the field and stepped to grass that was somehow still green to an infield that desperately needed raking. The bases were here, but the players were not. No sound of practice, no sound of rest; only the sound of anticipation. I walked to the home dugout and saw it littered with detritus, as if the team was here, just a minute ago. That thought scared me, so I hurriedly walked back out. I think I had made sure to schedule my hours here when the team was playing away. While the infield needed raking, the outfield was pristine (oh. I just remembered: it's synthetic. Better to put the effort of caring for green towards the green that will feed us and soothe our souls). I walked along the foul line and touched the padded back wall of the field. A player might have just kicked off this; that indentation there from the desperate reach to try and stop a triple. I could feel the wishes of countless fans, the push and pull of a myriad of souls cheering, it was almost like the stadium was full, the lights on, the game in its final innings, the excitement fever pitch hit run—
I felt a sound and looked up into the silent expanse above me and saw something coming. It was definitely falling, but at first it looked as if it didn't know where gravity pulled; it was falling out, not down—and then, neat as a button, it was falling down, as if it suddenly remembered which way down was supposed to be, except I was sure it wasn't it remembering but rather me. It landed in the outfield, not 20 meters from me. It was a blaseball player. I felt awe, but also sadness and maybe fear. I had never been nearer to one of our players than the distance between the stands and the field, and I tried to not go to many games despite feeling it was Necessary to. Something about that willingness to put all on the line, to play and be played, it scared me.
The player looked at me, mothlike, glowing like the neon (altho most of it was still struggling to light), dark as the emptiness above and seeming to have come home after a long journey abroad.
My voice broke the quiet, which was a shame, but it seemed important to greet this player, seemed important to have a player, seemed… vital to have one.
"welcome… to the core? I'm not sure what's left, but what we have is yours as much as mine"
They seemed to understand I was speaking, but the words didn't have meaning. A different language? I chose English as a broad choice, but I could try the broken bits of what else I kn—oh, they're signing I think? They're deaf. OK. I try again, in DownSL; I don't think it's really what they know, but it's all I know and hopefully we can figure something out,
, I repeat. Their eyes don't widen (I don't think they can) but I sense—smell?—surprise, recognition, something else. The response is rapid and in DSL—they do know it, ok—I think the last thing is sadness but that doesn't seem to capture the totality.
I wish I knew the answers, but I don't. I'm pretty sure they're the only player here though; the core is too cold for more. It takes me a moment to try to answer; I wonder if that third thing is anger more than sad and I swallow my intimidation. I'm suddenly reminded of an ancient player, one who held the team for too short a time, but I don't know why they of all players roll in my mind. Scoresburg. I realize I was trying to answer a question. It's too late, the bug (affectionate {wait, do I like blaseball players? I thought I was afraid of them.}) has stalked towards the dugout. I don't know if I should follow or not. I don't know what I'm supposed to do at all, really. The machines aren't just off, they're cool. The thrum of the core replaced with the song of the void (hello beautiful), all openness and that quiet you can hear.
The full stadium lights kick on. The player is walking back, an orange jumpsuit on matching mine and a toolbox in hand. They stop near home plate, wave me over. I think it's time to get back to work
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