Work Text:
“Uncle, we’re not doing this again.”
In the brightly lit bullpen, what can only be described as an assorted group of floating, golden spheres in a trenchcoat shrugs. “You were the one who brought it up, my guy. I’m only continuing the conversation.”
Beside it, the man made of dark liquid with eyes of molten gold throws xir hands up in the air. “Well! I’m pretty sure I’ve got a better idea about all this than you do!”
Some of the spheres rearrange themselves to form what could be interpreted as either a grimace or a smirk. “Uh huh. Yeah. Sure you do.”
“I mean it! What other explanation could there be for all this? Why would there be a different reason for us being here? For any of us being here?”
“I don’t know, man. But I don’t think it involves aliens.”
Liquid leans forward and waves his hands incredulously. “Why the hell not?! You saw those Tractor Beams in the Coffee Cup! How could those NOT be aliens???”
“Because aliens don’t exist, dumbass! How could any of this NOT be manmade? How could this NOT be the product of mankind’s own hubris? You think the Coin is an alien? Hah! Pfah! Guffaw! I laugh at you, sir! Mayhaps your time as a Scrambled fellow has made your mind addled in a more permanent fashion than you would like to admit! As much as I admire your gumption, young man, perhaps there are other individuals who have more grounded notions than yourself on this issue!”
Plasma is waved off by an indignant Liquid. “Alright, alright! I get it! You think I’m wrong! So let’s hear your idea!”
Two spheres detach from the main body and float up to the face. They pop and disappear, replaced by a cigarette and lighter. One ignites the other as Uncle Plasma inhales deeply, exhales even deeper, and leans back as much as it can.
“Starbucks.”
“WHAT -”
***
In a slightly different, more gold-plated bullpen, a person in an extravagantly long jacket covered in coins and Paula Turnip lounge around on the bench with golden eyes and joints that crack when they move.
“I’m telling you, it’s a missed opportunity! You could have earned millions from the comfort of your own home, Paula! All you had to do was idol yourself! You could have pickled it up, Paula! You could have pickled your way into Jeff Bezos levels of money!”
Paula waves her hand lazily, her wrist popping like kettle corn in a microwave. “I’m telling you Aldon, it wouldn’t have mattered! You know how much they paid us to sell that Violent Lightning bullshit. I never needed the money. Besides, what use would I even have for it here?”
Aldon sighs. Vis lungs crackle. “Oh Paula. You poor little moron. Money isn't for spending. Not when you’re as rich as we are, anyway. It’s about letting other people know you have it.”
A sound similar to a mile of Velcro tearing all at once echoes across the void as Paula props herself up by her elbows and squints at the asshole with the gold-tipped locs whose body is sprawled out before her like unspooled thread as she brushes some of her braids away from her face. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh come on, don’t tell me you didn’t know this.”
“Uhh… no? You know where I grew up, right?”
“Yeah yeah, you’re a country bumpkin who went to Hades and stole the hearts of millions, you’ve brought it up in enough viral Oprah interviews, I get it. I still thought you would have picked all of this up, though.”
“Look.”
Aldon opens vis eyes wide and takes off vis cash-tinted sunglasses. “I’m looking!”
Paula scowls. “Bitch.”
They both burst into laughter, and continue talking about how wrong they both are about anything and everything they can think of.
***
In another corner of the seemingly endless void, Valentine Games hides their eyes behind heart-shaped sunglasses as a pitching machine that weeps gold spits out baseballs that are smeared with red. Val reaches a hand behind their head, rubbing the back of her head anxiously.
“Hey, Pitchy. Do you ever think about if all this has… changed us? At all?”
Pitching Machine shoots out another baseball in response, making a faint ptoo sound as it does so, rocking back gently from the recoil.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so. I just wanted to ask, since, y’know, I’ve been a little preoccupied lately.”
Another ball is ejected with a ptoo. Val leans back a bit to avoid the shimmering liquid that comes out with the ball.
“Was it the same for you, after you were Forged? Do you remember who did it?”
The machine responds with a ptoo.
“Was your room the same as mine? Was it just as empty? Just as endless?”
Ptoo.
“Did you lose track of everything in there? Did you lose yourself?”
…
“After filling your life with more and more people to distract you from the present, did it hurt when you were forced to focus on the past? On yourself?”
…
Val leans forward, rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “Y’know, for a sentient machine, you aren’t much of a conversationalist.”
Ptoo.
“Yeah, I know.”
***
Nagomi Mcdaniel and York Silk sit as far away from each other as possible on a bench that is six feet long, staring at their own shoes, hands wringing themselves into suffocation. Every now and again, one of them is gently pulled away as if tied to an invisible cord to a place both of them refuse to see. The other one watches them leave, but refuses to make eye contact as they return, drifting back to their bench and wordlessly returning to their original position.
Both of them think of their shared past with golden eyes amidst a cloud of static, remembering the days they spent with Lehua, with Mom, with the woman who fought to keep them together, then insisted they should be apart. They remembered when Nagomi would teach York how to swing a bat, how to dress for press conferences, what to say if a reporter goes too far, why he shouldn’t use his gunblade when he’s LARPing, how to handle being carcinized for the first time. They remembered when York came back from the dead, a bright red ball, soaking wet and silently screaming. They remembered the aftermath (Nagomi swears up and down they reached out, York watched them both get swallowed up by the gold in their veins and knows all they did was send a text and finalized the divorce). They remembered their time in the Vault so far, always separate, always apart from each other. They remembered suddenly appearing here, glancing at each other for just a moment, then looking away.
Every so often, one of them will look at the other, on the verge of saying something, anything.
But they probably never will.
***
There are ten people on the field in the middle of the Vault. What they are doing is unimportant. This is all for show anyway.
Rotating around the field like the rings of a planet are what could be sports equipment if you squint hard enough: a plank of wood carved in the shape of a bat, a comically large mitten, pentagonal plates made of porcelain, croquet balls and mallets, all circling the game like vultures circling their prey.
We zoom out and see the Legends, trapped on benches that are floating in the middle of nowhere, preoccupied with themselves. Occasionally, they are yanked roughly onto the field, and are returned just as quickly once they no longer have to play. Surrounding them are objects that cannot be seen clearly, for to see them is to know too much.
We pan up, and see an infinite number of shapes that are dark and light all at once, infinite and yet few, too big to comprehend and too small to see, all shifting in and out of each other, eyes glinting in the stark whiteness around them, yet so dark they seem to be absorbing all light and sucking you in with it, their hands (many and one, separate but together, chaotic yet synchronized) reaching towards you and pulling back and entwining with each other and screaming with a voice you know you shouldn’t be able to hear, but can’t stop listening to.
You see all this, hear all this, and wonder why this is happening, who would even do this? Why?
Welcome to the Semi-Centennial.