The Murverse Mothership

Notes-

• This is my holiday Blaseball fanfic. I have nothing to do with Blaseball, I make nothing from it. It’s a free story called “Loopholes” and it’s entirely unauthorized. If you’re not familiar with Blaseball, then check out the wiki for clarification on some of these people/terms I use. (Don’t look up Lancelot Dine-N-Dash or Eccentric Performance on the wiki; they’re original characters.)
• If you’re here from Blaseball fandom, welcome! I write fiction, do livestreaming, and am a veteran podcaster (16 years at last count).
• This is totally free. If you like my fiction, I’m going to start releasing stuff monthly on my Patreon.
• I wrote this 6400 word story in two days with one to polish, so if there are typos, tense changes, or inconsistencies, I apologize. But I wanted to get it out before Christmas.
• CW: lots of blood (very little comes from living beings), confinement, speaking of incinerations.

 

Loopholes
by Mur Lafferty

There are no holidays in blaseball.

Well. Except for the Singe, the day commemorating the first incineration. And the *******, the Day of Silence where we mark the unholy necromantic return of Jaylen Hotdogfingers. And Two For One, where folks celebrate the return of Hotdogfingers.

Blaseball exists in a multiverse, you see. If you can imagine it, then it’s probably happened at some time, to some person.

But we can’t tell all the stories at once. We don’t have that kind of time. So we are telling this story, which is the story of the Field of Eggs on the winter solstice. And a loophole in the strict rules of this world.

Look over there, trudging through the bloody Field of Eggs with his head down. It’s the keeper of the eggs, Lancelot Dine-N-Dash.

In some multiverses, Lancelot Dine-N-Dash is a blaseball manager. At last count, he managed the Tokyo Lift, or the Houston Spies, or the Hades Tigers. In these ‘verses, he is wealthy and wears pinstripe suits with polka-dotted ties.

Aside- in no known multiverse has Lancelot been known to put together a flattering outfit.

Other ‘verses have him existing as a traveling warrior, wielding a magical weapon that once belonged to his best friend, that he may or may not have stolen. He has been a bat boy for the Houston Spies, owner of the Bright Spot Café, which borders the Shadows, and the lover of Eugenia Garbage, Jessica Telephone, Mike Townsend, McLaughlin Scorpler, and Durham Spaceman.

The god he usually vibes with the most is the Microphone. In one multiverse, he is the holy detangler of the Microphone’s cords. The god has been known to bless Lancelot in other ‘verses, but not this current one.

And in other ‘verses—the best ones—he is a blaseball player. Four-star pitcher for the Charleston Shoe Thieves. Seven-star baserunner for the Banner Elk Peasants. Half-star defense for the Mars Fright. He waits in the Shadows to help out the North Pole Santa Jaws when they need him, and we just heard that on one plane, he’s just been part of a feedback switch from the Boston Flowers to the Toronto Hot Cakes, who resent him greatly for replacing their star batter Spiders George. This will cause strife, and not even the gods know if he will be accepted on the Hot Cakes.

Lancelot has had the modifications Spicy, Electric, Flickering, and, perhaps reflecting the attention the Microphone gives him, he’s always a Receiver. He’s been the hero. He’s been the goat. He’s been the G.O.A.T.

But here, and now, Lancelot is an egg minder. No modifications or blessings. Forgotten by gods, awarded no flashy job as player, reporter, or ump, and standing in waders, knee deep in the bloody Field of Eggs, he makes his daily rounds.

The Field of Eggs is the holy place from where blaseball players come. We don’t ask what lays the eggs. They appear twice a year during the night when Lancelot is very determinedly locked inside his shack so he doesn’t witness what could very likely make him lose his mind. Every day he wades into the blood-soaked fields and checks each egg, taking inventory of the placement of each one and the ripeness of them.  He gives them a turn and a pat. He may talk to them.

When the gods determine a blaseball player is needed, either to replace another player or to fill a new team’s roster, an egg on the field cracks and a new player is born, fully formed, already wearing their team’s uniform. Lancelot helps them get oriented, takes a scrap of the egg to put in his special collection, and cleans the shells from the field. And then work returns to normal.

One never knows when the gods will call a new player, and Lancelot must always be ready, even during the longer dormant periods of Siestas. Hatchings are the most exciting times in his job.

In theory he is supposed to be prepared for more exciting incidents, since part of his job description includes protecting the field, but he has no training and no weapons. And if the Monitor, the giant squid god from the sea who looks after the incinerated players in the Hall of Flame, ever finds the field, Lancelot will be running for cover. The Monitor reportedly loves eggs, but also isn’t too bright since it can’t tell the difference between eggs and peanuts, and Lancelot counts on that for his and his charges’ safety.

With no holidays in this universe, the solstice is merely a time when the days are the shortest and the unholy glow of the field is dimmest.

Or so Lancelot thinks, anyway.

Let’s get back to him. It is the solstice, and he’s trying to get his rounds done before the light fades. Whatever lays the eggs comes in the middle of the longest day of the year, and in the middle of the longest night, and he likes to be well away from the field at those times.

In some multiverses, the players inside the ripened eggs aren’t self aware until they’re called up, but not so here. They can be aware, awake, and…chatty.

Lancelot knows the names of every player in the eggs, but he never speaks them aloud until they’re hatched. Aloud, they are all the gender-neutral Ashley.

“Lance. Hey. Lance.”

“That’s not my name, Ashley.” Ashley. Since that player had ripened to full awareness, Lancelot has not been a fan of them.

“Lance, I know you’re there, I can hear you. What’s the news? Any new teams? Exhibitions? Incinerations? Think they’ll need to call a new player soon?”

Lancelot is tending the shiniest part of the field, where the eggs have a metallic sheen, and thusly it’s assumed that the best players come from here. Historically, Jessica Telephone, Nagomi Mcdaniel, and Axel Trololol were all hatched from the shinier eggs, and their shells had been cleaned, polished, and placed on high pedestals by their teams.[1]

Lancelot pauses at Ashley’s egg, the ripest one in that spot on the field, very likely the next one called up when the team needed a player. It is tall and thin, even taller than Lancelot, who stands at six foot six inches. It shines with a rosy sheen, and has a dark smudge like a cowl over one side. Inside, he knows, is a player named [REDACTED.]

“What do you want, Ashley?”

“Just conversation, man. Why so touchy? Why’s it so dark? You think today’s the day? My big day?” Ashley is always asking questions, and rarely waits for Lancelot to answer.

“It’s the winter solstice,” Lancelot explains, giving Ashley’s egg a quick polish. “Shortest day of the year. It’ll get brighter tomorrow, don’t worry.” He shifts the egg beside Ashley’s so it would ripen equally on each side. “And I told you, the new Boss called a Siesta, and there are no Coffee Cup events or exhibition games scheduled, so you definitely won’t get called up anytime soon.”

“You know, you should take a better look at the world. You’re a downer,” Ashley complains. “Take me for example. I am living in an egg. An egg, Lance-“

“Don’t call me Lance.”

“-And all I have is a bright sunny look. Even when the sun’s not really shining, apparently.”

“The sun never shines here; we’re on the outskirts of the Shadows.”

“See? That right there. I’m so positive that I can imagine a sun outside this egg, and you are just raining on my parade. I can also imagine parades.”

Lancelot turns on the egg and slapped it with his bare hand. “Look, you have nothing but potential, you are likely going to get called up and play for a team. You might even join a brand new expansion team. Or a god’s team. Maybe even the new Boss is filling out her team, or the Microphone will get involved. You could rival Telephone. No one knows. But that means they think you COULD become someone. Me, everyone knows I won’t become anyone. I will never see the sun. Or the Hellmouth, or Hades. I will never see a parade. I mark time passing by eggs hatching and the light waxing and waning.”

“Sounds peaceful. And hey you’ll never get incinerated, right? And do you really think I could play for the new boss? Is she forming a team?”

“You have the attention span of a kitten,” Lancelot says. “Stop asking me about why I’m not more positive. Because it’s pretty obvious if you pause to look outside your eggshell for a hot second, you’d realize-”

He pauses. An awkward silence fills the field, which is already silent, but now it’s a pointed silence. A waiting silence. The eggs watch, and wait for him to realize the insensitive thing he just said.

“…sorry,” he mutters, and wanders on.

He hates Ashley. He knows in his gut that the player will become someone special; they’ll either have great stats, or be blessed by the gods, or something. He always knows. He also knows that he, Lancelot, will never amount to anything.

He breaks from his usual path to the edge of the field where sits an older egg. It is cracked down the middle, and has only recently stopped smelling of sulfur.

There had been a miscommunication when word came down that a rogue umpire was planning an incineration of a player, and this egg had been the next on deck to replace them. The shell was cracked and one glowing, six-fingered hand had started to reach out when another message came to stop the hatching, that the player had turned the incineration on the ump instead. The new player wasn’t needed, which stuck the player inside in an uncomfortable existence of not hatched, but more hatched than other eggs.

The player had asked to speak to their agent, but no one had yet agreed to represent the player. They were truly in limbo.

The egg has been cracked for several seasons now. When the Tokyo Lift expansion team had been created, Lancelot worked his busiest day in memory as he supervised the hatching of a full roster of players. This egg didn’t crack further. It hadn’t even cracked when temporary players were needed to round out the Coffee Cup roster, and those were exhibition teams. Other multiverses probably had this player as a superstar on the Dallas Steaks, or a bitter veteran has-been with the Hellmouth Sunbeams, but here they are just an old never-was.

Lancelot had thought about offering to break their shell and help them out himself, but the rules were ironclad; No egg in the Field of Eggs could have help from an outside person in breaking their shell. Their shell would be broken when the time was right. Which Lancelot had always interpreted as “if they weren’t fit enough to come out of the shell themselves, they weren’t fit enough for blaseball.”

This player had long since come to terms with their situation. And the day that Lancelot used their official name cemented it for both of them. This egg wasn’t hatching. Ever.

Their name is Eccentric Performance.

“Hey Lancelot. You sounded tense. You need a vacation.” Eccentric says from inside their egg. “If you don’t take pleasure in your work, then it shows.”

“But no one is around to see me take pleasure, or not take pleasure. Who cares?” Lancelot says. He leans against Eccentric’s egg and slides down it until he’s sitting in the bloody muck, waist deep now. He winces as a trickle of warm blood sneaks inside his waders.

“Us. We see it, or hear it at least, and we care.” The voice sounds like it’s trying to be soothing, but there’s a tightness underneath.

“What do you care? Everyone is going to hatch and leave me and live their lives anyway,” he snaps. “Except you, and you would leave if you could.” Then he winces. Eccentric may have accepted their reality, but that doesn’t mean they like it. Or that pointing it out to them doesn’t hurt.

“Everyone has their role to play,” Eccentric says softly. “You can accept it, or change it. But whining that you have it worse than everyone else in the world is frankly enraging.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, his cheeks warming. “I keep putting my foot in it. It’s just the short days, and the egg layer is coming tonight, and that puts me on edge every time. And Mike Townsend sent me a letter yesterday. At least I think it was Mike. His handwriting is terrible, and it’s hard to see to write in the Shadows. But I just keep thinking, “Mike’s stuck in the Shadows but at least he had a chance to play.”

“But you’re right. I shouldn’t just dump on you all the time. I’m sorry.”

“You said the egg layer?” Eccentric says, sounding like she hasn’t heard the part about Mike.

“Oh, right. You weren’t here for the summer solstice. Yeah, that’s where the eggs come from.”

“Our mother?”

He frowns. “No one has ever referred to it as a mother, or parent. Most refer to it as something large and terrifying and something to avoid at all costs. So I make sure I’m inside when it comes by to deposit new eggs.” He squints across the field. “I should make sure the fallow field is ready.”

“Lancelot, does it ever take eggs away?” Their voice was urgent.

“What? Why would it do that?” he asks, then realization dawns. Until Eccentric was nearly hatched, there had been no faulty eggs, no reason to take away old eggs. Everything hatched until Eccentric Performance got stuck.

“I really don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know what it is or why it does what it does.”

Eccentric goes silent for some time. Lancelot turns his head and raps on the shell with his knuckles. “You OK in there?”

“I’m fine.” The voice is soft and sad. “Let me see Mike’s letter, I can probably read it.”

Lancelot fishes into his pants inside his waders, looking for the letter. He had learned early on to avoid asking how the people in eggs know how to speak, or read, or can identify badly written letters in total darkness. If they say they can read it, it’s usually safe to assume they’re right.

He pulls the letter out, grimacing at the blood smear on the envelope. He unfolds it and holds it to the crack in the egg. Something shifts inside and a glowing golden eye peers out.

After a moment studying the paper, Eccentric says, “he’s saying he wishes he could see the light again, and he’d love to meet all the new players like you do. He says to high five the next one for him.”

Lancelot turns the paper around and squints at it. “Seriously? That’s what it says?”

“More or less,” Eccentric says. “He’s saying the Shadows aren’t that much fun. Sounds like he’s jealous of you being able to live the safe life that you do. I can relate.” Their egg shifts again, and Lancelot imagines Eccentric settling down to sit with their back to his. “Everyone’s got someone they’re jealous of, Lancelot. Sure, some have it better than you. But you should also remember that some others have it worse, too.”

“So the lesson is just be satisfied with what I have? That’s it? I have a coffee cup with that saying on it!” he says, anger rising again. The anger is better than the hot stone of shame in his chest.

“Worth a try,” Eccentric says.

“Mike Townsend is in the Shadows because he chose to sacrifice himself to make way for Jaylen Hotdogfingers,” Lancelot says slowly. Eccentric knows this story, everyone does, but he has to vocalize it to give weight to Mike’s actions. “He got a chance to be a hero when he never had that chance when he was a pitcher. I know I sound like I’m a selfish whiner who can’t see beyond my own eggshell, but I’ve never even had a chance to sacrifice myself, or give anything up. I have nothing to give up for the greater good.”

“Don’t you.” The voice is flat. The sentence is matter of fact.

Lancelot had crossed a line, he suddenly realizes. But- what was it? He has just been stating facts. “I gotta finish my rounds and check on that fallow field,” he mutters, and levers himself out of the muck. He puts his hand on the egg over the crack, but doesn’t feel a mirroring movement inside like he usually does. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“If I’m still here,” Eccentric says.

~

Someone else is in the Field of Eggs.

It doesn’t look like the Monitor peering over the eggs, looking for the tastiest one; at least this person is vaguely humanoid. But Lancelot’s heart still hammers as he’s realizing his thus-far-unused responsibility of his job might become relevant. Who is this person? And who in their right mind would want to come here? Most of people couldn’t come here. The players are only allowed to exit the field, never to return.

But that person standing on the field is definitely a blaseball player. They are a little shorter than Lancelot, and look … familiar, with a facial structure that he recognizes, but when they turned toward him, their dark skin shifts and Lancelot spies a string of muscle here, a flash of bone there.

They wear the green and pink uniform of the Breath Mints, which also feels wrong. The player they resemble isn’t a Breath Mint, or they hadn’t been in several seasons; they are now with the Canada Moist Talkers. Then Lancelot remembers with a shock. Ninety-nine percent of the players come from the Field of Eggs, but that isn’t necessarily required to play blaseball. There is at least one player who has never even been to the Field of Eggs because they weren’t born from an egg: they started out as a shadow of another player.

PolkaDot Patterson was such a dominant player that they even had an amazing shadow. But when they were traded from the Breath Mints, their contract stated they needed to leave their shadow behind. Ever since Season Two, the shadow has been trying to make a name for themselves, working first with the shed skin of Patterson to give themselves some substance, and later dropping the skin to establish their own identity.

“PolkaDot Zavala,” Lancelot breathes. He’s read about the player, of course, but as he’s never meant them, Zavala has become rather legendary in Lancelot’s mind.

Zavala looks up, one brown eye focusing, the other one still an empty cavern rimmed with bone. “Do I know you?” The voice is slightly nervous.

“No, I’m Lancelot, I tend the Field of Eggs, but we don’t know each other because you weren’t born here,” Lancelot says, then slaps his forehead. “You know that. Of course you do. I’m sorry, I’m apparently saying everything wrong today.”

He tries to wipe away the blood he has just transferred to his face, but ends up only smearing it. His waders are covered in blood, his hand is bloody, and his forehead is probably also a nightmare. Self-loathing begins to rise inside, but he remembers he has a job to do.

He clears his throat. “It’s an honor to meet you, but I have to tell you that no one is allowed back here. I’m going to have to escort you to the border.” He bites his lip. “But… first, how did you get here? You shouldn’t have been able to come.”

Zavala still watches him, the one eye taking in his appearance. “You know who I am?” they ask, avoiding his questions.

Lancelot nods. “Oh  yeah, I keep up with all the blaseball news. I love reading about the players I helped hatch, but the few I’ve never met are really interesting. So yeah, I read all about your career, and, uh,” he gestures to Zavala’s body, which still swirls with dark mist in some places, and solidifies into dark skin in others.

“My transformation is almost complete,” they say. “I was feeling pretty low, with the siesta and the end of the year and everything. But since we’re on a break, Pudge told me I should find myself.”

“Pudge Nakamoto?” Lancelot says, delighted to hear about the person from the small, slightly soft egg that he had wondered would ever hatch.

“The same,” Zavala says, nodding. “They said that we had time so I should try to find myself, and maybe have some new experiences, some that are totally mine and not related to Patterson or the game. Because now I have no anchor, no origin.”

“No origin?” Lancelot asks. “But you were Patterson’s shadow?”

“Patterson is not my parent,” Zavala says flatly. “The closest approximation would be twins. I just wasn’t self-aware until they left. When they were hatched, though, they came from this field, so I sort of did too. Pudge told me I could come back here right now. They thought I could bend the rules since I’ve never been here. I thought about the other places we’re not supposed to go, and figured it was a good time to see how far I could go. I may be able to go some places the Field-born players can’t.”

“But isn’t it dangerous? We don’t know what’s on the outskirts of the field, and this place isn’t even that safe, with the egg layer coming tonight. Blaseball is safe comparatively,” Lancelot says. “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Blaseball is safe?” Zavala says, then actually laughs. Lancelot has heard Zavala is normally taciturn, but that’s not the case now.

“At least you know what the threats are with blaseball,” Lancelot mutters.

“Tell that to everyone in the Hall of Flame, I’m sure they’ll feel better,” Zavala says.

Lancelot clears his throat. “Anyway, I can’t let you harm the eggs. What are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m not here to hurt anything,” Zavala said, reaching out slowly to caress a small, black egg.

Lancelot thinks, then remembers the box he carries with him always. “Do you want to see Patterson’s egg shell?”

Zavala brightens. “Could I?”

Lancelot pulls his backpack off and carefully removes a 6-inch square box made of bone. He opens the top and looked down into a swirling void where a fragment of each player’s shell floats. He waits a moment, watching the nearly three hundred pieces circling the vortex inside, and then reaches in and snags one.

“That’s amazing,” Zavala says, pointing to the box. “Where did you get that box?”

“This? I made it,” Lancelot says. “Figured it’s a good way to collect all the shell bits I want to collect. It never fills up, you see.”

“You made a box that contains an infinite void,” Zavala says, their one eye wide. “And you  use it to store eggshell fragments? Does the Boss know about you?”

“I don’t think so,” Lancelot says, shifting uncomfortably. “And I needed a place to store the eggshells. I started with two hundred sixty after the first hatching, so I had a mess on my hands.” The idea of the Boss taking interest in him makes him uneasy even though she has done little but encourage fairness in blaseball. “What’s the big deal, why should she care who I am? I tend a bloody field of eggs. I carve stuff. I’m not important or anything.”

“Pudge once told me that hatching isn’t what makes a blaseball player. It’s how you hit the ball. Or how you pitch.”

“How is that relevant?” Lancelot says, rubbing at the drying blood on his forehead.

Zavala shakes their head. “It was literal at the time, but it’s metaphorical here. Who tended the field before you?”

“I don’t know,” Lancelot says, flummoxed.

“Do you think the Boss will find someone new to tend the eggs if you left?”

“Left? I can’t leave! I have a job to do!”

“The Boss is a god,” Zavala reminded him. “I think She could find someone to fill your shoes. You could do anything with that skill.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Lancelot says flatly. “Just- trust me. I couldn’t.”

Zavala shakes their head again, slower. “When you’re ready to figure it out, come find me. I’m pretty much an expert in making yourself into what you want to be. You’re not that bright, but you’re nice, which goes a long way. You’ll figure it out. Anyway, the shell?”

Lancelot forgets he is holding a piece of shell in his hand. He holds it up between his thumb and finger, the knowledge that it is from PolkaDot Patterson’s egg as sure as if it had been labeled. The shell is a dark gray with small white dots all over it.

Zavala doesn’t look at the shell, though, but at Lancelot’s shirt.

The light is fading, but there’s enough to cast a fuzzy shadow of the shell onto Lancelot’s chest. Zavala reaches out and their fingers go misty, they pluck the shell shadow right off his shirt.

“Amazing,” Zavala says, holding the shadow close to their eye. “This is where I came from.”

“I guess, yeah, but if you were born here then you couldn’t have returned,” Lancelot says, frowning.

“It was a loophole that made me stay with the Mints after Patterson left,” Zavala says, still looking at the shadowy thing in their hand. “And it’s a loophole that I came from this, but didn’t.”

“I don’t get it,” Lancelot says, shaking his head. He places Patterson’s eggshell back into the box, where it floats again amongst its fellows. Zavala drops the shadow shell into the box after it, where, to Lancelot’s surprise, it floats apart from Patterson’s.

“I think it’s the time of year,” Zavala says. “The nights are long, and the living realm is closest to the shadows. The rules are easier to bend right now.” They look past the vast field of differently sized and colored eggs into the distance beyond. “I think I need to go to the Shadows next.”

“The Shadows? Why? No one is allowed to go there unless they’re sent!”

“I think I can go,” Zavala says, a small note of shy pride coming into their voice. “I’m part shadow, and I came here, didn’t I?”

“More rule bending. Loopholes,” Lancelot says, nodding slowly. He closes the box of shells and puts it into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. “I wish you luck, then.” He starts to say something like how he wished he could give Zavala a good luck charm or something, but something dark catches his eye over the horizon.

Zavala follows his eyes. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

Lancelot swallows. Nods.

Zavala smiles at him. “Not all shadows are bad, Lancelot. And that one brings eggs.”

Lancelot noticed that Zavala doesn’t waste time, though, and after a quick good bye and thanks, he is gone.

He’s got a field ready. He hasn’t finished all his rounds, but those can wait till tomorrow. He needs to get back to his cottage.

~

Lancelot can’t sleep. For the first time he’s not hiding from the egg layer, but pacing the floor of his small shack.

Surely Eccentric will be fine he tells himself. What manner of beast takes away old eggs?

Predators. Mothers who want to keep their nest space free for new eggs. Interlopers who push out eggs to make room for their own cuckoos. Plenty of beasts remove old eggs.

He goes to his easy chair and sits next to the fire for a moment, then is up again, pacing.

Fine, all right, he’s worried about Eccentric. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen to them, and he had been all wrapped up in his own problems to even acknowledge their fear.

“But what can I do about it?” he says aloud. “I can’t fight a god!” He pulls back his foot and kicks his chair in frustration.

He dislodges something from under his chair. A wooden egg that must have rolled under his chair after he carved it. It has a small line carved into it, an homage to Eccentric Performance’s prison.

Lancelot no longer has his carving knife. A while back, he’d found a sliver of metal that he carefully fashioned into a knife, with a bone handle and a very sharp blade.

Around the time of the battle between the Monitor and the giant Peanut god, the Microphone had been traveling frequently to the Shadows and beyond. One day, in its haste, it dropped a sliver of metal from its cord. To the giant Microphone, something like this was nothing. A fingernail clipping. To Lancelot’s relatively small hands, it was an awesome and powerful tool.

So Lancelot did what anyone would do when a god drops something in his lap. He hid it away and rarely took it out, terrified to actually use it.

Over time, he turned it into a knife, then tried to carve with it. It cut through anything he put it to, but he mainly carved small objects. Eggs, mostly, but after some practice he tried a larger project: a box that, when he finished it, led to a foggy void that could hold pretty much anything.

This startled him.

He decided to keep shells in the box.

He then took the knife and threw it into the Field of Eggs, sinking below the bloody muck. One didn’t mess with power one didn’t understand. Lancelot knows that much. He had cut himself with the knife as he threw it. He had thought it was fitting to have his blood mix with the Field of Eggs. Poetic, at least.

As the night got darker, he thought about Zavala, walking fearlessly (or at least bravely) into the Shadows. He wondered if they would come back. He wondered if they would need help. He wondered who could help them.

The field of eggs below his house was hidden in the darkness except for one bright line, a crack in a shell. Eccentric Performance. During dark nights, their egg sometimes shone when they were awake. He would look at it and wonder what they thinking of.

He thinks he can guess what they are thinking right now.

He thinks also about the loopholes Zavala had been exploiting. The rules he follows for his job are very particularly worded. Clearly written by someone who was the author of the forbidden book, rules meant to be followed but also interpreted.

He can’t help hatch an egg on the field. But nobody ever said anything about an egg not on the field.

Outside, the wind has picked up. He feels rather than sees the huge presence over the fallow field, but he runs instead toward the still-glowing crack on the edge of the field. He forgot his waders, so he’s lumbering and sliding through the bloody muck, trying to beat the clock, or at least beat the presence two hundred yards away.

He catches sight of one glowing eye but then his shoulder connects with the egg. His feet slide from underneath him and he belly flops into the mire. He staggers to his feet, wind whipping his bloody hair from his face. He tried to push the egg, but it won’t budge.

When he needed to turn the eggs, he had no problems. They weren’t heavy, or rooted to the ground. But Eccentric’s egg isn’t budging. It’s as if the edge of the field were a wall and there is no pushing it out.

He collapses against the egg, screaming. The shell feels carved of thick bone. Glowing fingertips reach out of the crack. He reached out and touches them.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I tried.”

“You tried,” they say. “I know. Thank you.”

“I’m staying,” he says, and sinks to his knees, forehead resting on the shell.

“No, it’s dangerous,” they say. Alarm has chased away the despair in their voice. “Get out of here!”

“We don’t know that,” he says. “It’s possible I’ll sit out here all night and finally see what lays the eggs, and then tomorrow is another day like today. Or maybe it will take you. If so, it takes me too.”

“Lancelot, don’t be stupid, one of us can live!“

“Do you want to spend our last hours together arguing?” he cries, drowning them out. “I know I’m stupid and not good for much more than turning eggs and carving-“

His mind goes back to his cottage. The box. The knife. The eggs he carved. And he knows what he has to do. He’ll spend all night looking for the knife in the pitch-black bloody muck if he has to.

The wind picks up. He plunges his hands into the warm sludge and searches. The Field of Eggs is massive, but he had to start somewhere. Why did he throw a god’s gift away?

“Lancelot,” Eccentric says. “There’s someone in your house.”

His neck nearly cracks as he whirls around. Two unexpected people in one day? Who was this one? Whoever they are stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the fire in Lancelot’s fireplace.  “PolkaDot Zavala?”

“I don’t know,” Eccentric says. “But they’re a blaseball player.”

He can see the hat. “I am going to see what they want. Maybe they can help us.” He puts his hand on the shell. “I’m coming back.”

Getting home isn’t the quick trip he hoped. The faster he tries to run, the more he slips in the bloody field. He makes himself slow down and pick his way through the eggs, his footing surer, his progress slow and steady. Some of the eggs yell encouragement at him, others taunt him. He doesn’t care.

He climbs the hill to his shack, where the blaseball player waits for him.

Lancelot can’t process the information when he sees the face of the player.

It’s Wyatt Mason.[2] But he’s not wearing the uniform of the San Francisco Lovers. He wears a black and white uniform with a pink microphone on the breast.

“Hi Lancelot,” he says, leaning against the door frame. “Bad night for visitors, I know. Can we talk?”

~

“Why did you throw away my gift?” Mason asks, wiping his bloody hand on a towel.

“I didn’t know what to do with it,” Lancelot says. “It was too powerful.”

“But you spend all your time bemoaning that you’re nobody. You receive a holy blessing and you don’t even use it!” Mason says, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I- “ Lancelot’s eyes fill with tears. “I know I screwed up,” he says. “I don’t have faith in myself. But I need your help. I need to get a friend out of a shell.”

“Eccentric Performance,” Mason says. “I know about them. You know, you could have done it in a second, but you never even considered it. Caution is good, Lancelot, but for all the eggs in the field, so is some curiosity!”

“What do you want me to do? If you want me to feel bad, I already do. But can we help them now and feel terrible when it’s over? They’re out there and the egg layer is getting closer!”

Mason looks out the window, squinting. “Is that what you call her?”

“That’s what you’re focused on?” Lancelot yells, then takes a deep breath. “If you’re not here to help me, I need to go help my friend. You can chastise me tomorrow.”

He turns and trudges back down the hill, cursing the time lost. “You’re a mouthpiece for a god, and all you can do is yell at me for throwing away a knife. What a waste of time!”

“A knife?” Wyatt Mason is by his side again. “What are you talking about?”

“The holy gift the Microphone gave me,” Lancelot says, not slowing down. “I threw it into the field because I was afraid of what it could do.”

“Oh! That! Yeah, I wasn’t talking about that,” Mason says. “That’s a tool. That’s not a gift. Think about it.”

He’s gone.

“Oh good. A riddle,” Lancelot says. He is exhausted. He can barely see. He’s covered in blood. And the wind is picking up as the presence – “Her” – nears. “What gifts do I have?”

He looks over the field. He can’t see anything except for the sliver of light from Eccentric’s shell. But he knows these eggs. He knows what each will be named, and he knows in what order they will hatch. He knows which of the eggs need attention, like turning, polishing, propping up, or a kind word. If he teaches out, he can feel the field. He can feel Her delivering the eggs over in the fallow field, and knows exactly when it will be flooded with the bloody muck to protect the eggs. He can feel each egg, the ones he likes, the ones who are filled with annoying people. They will all hatch and leave, going outside.

“Outside. Outside people.”

The wind dies as if holding its breath, waiting for him.

“Outside people can’t help the hatching eggs. I’m not an outside person. I work here. I live here. I am the field of eggs.”

“No exactly,” Mason says, but close enough. You’re not the field but it is entirely in your care. You can do nearly anything with the eggs, within the rules. And those are, as you know, bendable. Especially tonight.”

“I can feel the knife. It’s beside egg number 294.”

“Yes.”

He looks over at Mason. “But I don’t need it, do I?”

Mason just looks at him.

He takes off at a run, keeping his feet under him this time. He slides into Eccentric’s egg just as She leaves the fallow field. She nears, looking as if she is interested in the action on the field.

Lancelot doesn’t hurry. He worms his hands into the crack of Eccentric’s shell and gives a quick pull. The shell finishes splitting down the middle, and light spills out.

He doesn’t take time to look at them. He holds out his hand and feels someone take it.

They run.

~

Mason is gone.

Instead, on the table is Lancelot’s knife, cleaned of all muck.

“Tools can be gifts,” he says as he picks it up and surveys it. He turns and finally sees Eccentric Performance in their full glory.

A person with bright golden eyes surveys his cabin. They are on the shorter side, lithe, with small wings on their back. They stretch, and a second set of arms unfold. Gleaming white hair flows down their back.

Perhaps the strangest thing was they are wearing a blaseball uniform. No egg has been called up, Lancelot knows that instinctively. But here was Eccentric, in a pinstripe black and white uniform. One of their four arms holds two hats nested together. They take one and toss it to Lancelot, who catches it. They put it on and he sees a microphone icon like Wyatt Mason had.

His own hat shows the same.

“I don’t think the team is ready for us yet,” Eccentric says, and their mouth breaks open in a wide, beautiful smile.

“But I think we might be ready for them, when they are,” Lancelot says.

There are no holidays in blaseball. Not in this multiverse, anyway. But every winter solstice from then on, no matter where their adventures took them, Eccentric Performance and Lancelot Dine-N-Dash always took time to recognize the shortest night of the year. It was a holiday that featured gifts, taunting a giant god and just getting away with their lives, and covering each other in blood to prove your devotion.

Happy Holidays!

---

[1]. Telephone’s and Mcdaniel’s shells have been cracked several times due to frequent team switching, but the teamsters in charge of moving only say, “What do you expect from us? It’s an EGG for crap’s sake! You wanna honor something, make it something stronger, like teeth, or something like a shed skin! How about honoring Jorge Ito’s skin?” This caused some unflattering things said about the incinerated Ito, and the Boston Flowers took great offense.

[2]. It’s too long to tell who Wyatt Mason is. Look up “The Wyatt Masoning.” For now, just accept that a former blaseball player is rumored to be the voice of the god called The Microphone.

 

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