Big Leagues (Part A)

Kennedy sits on a fallen pillar, his elbows propped up on his knees and his face in his hands.

He couldn't remember how long it had been. The sun never went down in this fucking place. Darkness wasn't something that was allowed. No, all that was allowed were endless rows of fucking perfectly carved marble and glistening water making rainbows as it cascades out of fountains and people who were so perfect they made Luis look natural.

And the sun wouldn't. Stop. Fucking. Shining. The clouds never even came close.

Kennedy bites his lip, hard, for about the millionth time. Pain still existed. It still wasn't a dream. They still couldn't get out. He spits blood onto the polished marble floor and, after a second, smiles.

A little imperfection. Crabs had a way of finding those and exploiting them. Little problems here, and there. There's a scream in the distance, and Kennedy forces himself to his feet. He could feel it in the air. Like chewing on gristle. Like having it caught in your teeth. The cold sore you can't stop fucking worrying at.

Time for action.

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The field was in ruins. No one cared enough this late into things to try and fix it up. After all, none of it mattered. Kennedy stands in the box and watches as the players file in. Forrest arrives, and Kennedy honestly doesn't know where from. He holds out a hand, and Forrest meets it with his only remaining one. Kennedy tries to not let his eyes stray to the other arm, how it was broken off. How he could see old bones poking out from the splintered wood. A squeeze from Forrest's fingers let him know that it didn't hurt today. That 'said', Forrest moves off to collect his bat and get ready. Rituals to observe.

Tot was already here, curled on a bench with smoldering spices around him. All things said, Tot seemed to be the least affected out of all this. That was comforting. Of everyone, Tot was probably the person who could suffer the most in this place, after that event with the Sun and the Moon. No one could have known the ILB had sponsored an entire event on the moon of all places. He was, in truth, blameless. Luckily he didn't seem to need much convincing about the fact. If Kennedy could be completely truthful, the refined quasi-british act seemed like it was hiding something. He couldn't complain too much though. Tot was a calming presence on the Crabs, something sorely needed in these times.

Kennedy shifts back a step as he hears a thudding stomp. Another, followed by a mechanical hiss, the faint hum of an engine, and Pedro arrives inside of his many legged shell belching smoke and shuddering ominously. Kennedy couldn't actually see him beneath all of the metal, old wood paneling, and circuitry, but the voice that came from it still sounded like him. Even if it was tinny and distorted now. Kennedy couldn't blame Pedro, of course. All of them have had to cope in some way. From within the mechanical monstrosity Luis' form also drops out, their body hardening into a dull pink as they touch marble. A lingering touch of hand on shell, and Kennedy faintly remembers the past. Letters and nicknames to other people. But, again. He couldn't blame anyone for how they were coping.

Without him wondering about it for too long, Evelton makes themself known, emerging from the shadows of the dugout escorting Parker. He still couldn't trust Evelton. No sign of accepting the Great Mother from that one, but he had his uses. Distantly Kennedy hates that thought. 'Had his uses', was he using people like tools now? He didn't have the free space in his head to work through that right now. Later. Parker had been having objectively the worst time. He couldn't imagine everything they were going through, but from what he could gather being an extradimensional being suddenly limited to one single plane of existence was like having the dial turned past 11 and then broken off. Evelton's training with the Spies gave them insight into operating darkly, and quietly. It was a simple choice, Parker was a beloved member of the team. And he had Tot check in on them every once in a while, soft movements to make sure there wasn't anything too... spy-ish going on in the dark.

With people filing in, small talk starts to crop up. Acknowledgements of each other, a wry joke about the weather, and pregame rituals. Always the rituals. It's important here in this place as it is down there. Little things to ensure good luck. To keep you safe. He never saw the other teams do anything but, well. Kennedy barely ever saw the other teams period. Forrest produces some gemstones stolen from elsewhere, Evelton uses them to appraise the sun. Parker needs no help with their ritual. Kennedy hears Pedro start up, and the sound of the younger Silvaire responding. Kennedy steps up into the light to greet them, and notes Bevan's presence. It was hard to define Bevan. Ascension had been difficult, something about the Hall Stars being released at the same time as the Ascension. What it meant was Landry was here too. The two were sort of a package deal now.

Silvaire and Bevan had been spending more time together, but it wasn't romantic by a long shot. The Spirit of Violence was doing things to Bevan that they had a hard time controlling, and Silvaire was rough enough to be able to put up with it. Less of a friend, more of a handler. Back to thinking of people like tools. He would have liked to know Bevan before this. They seemed like a gentle person. Maybe they could have communed with the Great Mother better than anyone else.

"Ken, I could use some help." Tosser's voice was strained, but it broke Kennedy out of his reverie. He wasn't supposed to be in today, he was supposed to be resting. But it looks like he had gotten Baldwin to help bring him to the dugout. The new growths around his arm had cropped up again. Of all the Crabs, he was the one still undergoing Carcinization. Maybe because he hadn't been done in the first place. Nodding, Kennedy steps over, takes support of Tosser, and leads him to a bench.

"This is gonna hurt like a bitch." Cursing casually still felt a little wrong to Kennedy. But it matched the mood.

"I passed out last time I tried to do it myself." Kennedy reaches out and concentrates. Changing this way took a lot, but pruning had to be done according to the old way.

Flesh parts, and the scent of blood fills the dugout. It was controlled, Kennedy only shifted a hand into the comfortable chitin of a true Crab. And it hurt like a bitch. A serrated claw encircles one of the new limb buds under Tosser's arm and snaps closed. A grunt of discomfort, the smell of new blood, and Kennedy drops the inhuman parts into his unchanged hand. "Here, eat. Important to get back the nutrients." Tosser wasn't new to this. Baldwin doesn't turn away. Evelton makes a note but doesn't write it down.

The sound of trumpets heralds the game's start, and Kennedy sighs. "Great. Alright people, let's do this. Remember, the most important thing is staying safe. After that, the most important thing is fucking them up." That sentiment rolls through the gathered team, and Kennedy puts his bloody claw in the middle. It's soon joined by the rest of the squad.

"Claws Up!"