Shells at Sea

Oliver Notarobot was not someone that would often be called a 'Fishing Man'.

Oliver Notarobot was hardly considered a man at all, by some.

Those who spoke out against him made every opportunity to call upon his lack of humanity as a way to bar him from taking the diamond. But in a splort populated by so many various forms of demi-humanity, it was difficult to bring proper accusations to bear against him. He was fairly certain there was, after all, at least one bear on one of the teams somewhere. As it is written plainly in the rulebook however:

"There is no rule banning ursines from playing Blaseball."

It was usually, however, much easier to simply tell people that he was simply not what he was. This was not for lack of ability to either properly refute others or, in fact, due to a deep set need to hide himself. There were simply too many things he wanted to do to waste his time with such petty things as arguing with someone if you needed a pulse to swing a bat.

Today, Kennedy had offered to help Oliver experience something that he had wanted to for quite a while. Launched out upon the massive floating shell of Alex as it bobbed along upon the surface of the Oldest Bay, Kennedy slathers another handful of sunscreen upon the back of his neck. "Don't wanna get boiled alive out here, right?" This had been the same joke as the last four applications. By now, Tillman had ceased even groaning in response to it. Fishing poles dangled lines deep beneath the water's surface as the motley collection of Crabs take part in what was considered to be an ancient bonding rite.

Long strands of entrails rest in a bucket, near which Tillman has been stationed with the bat. It was his sacred duty to ward away any gulls who sought to rob the crew of their bait. For the most part, he sat under a large parasol and grumbled about the stench while on his cell phone. Forrest sat motionless, his face staring into the depths for even minute signs that his rod was ready to reel in. Finn had been present at first, though shortly after they had set up in this position he had disappeared under the depths. It was more natural, Oliver rationalized, for him to do so. The bobble upon his head had to be quite effective after all.

There's a hiss from one of his internal mechanisms as Oliver settles once more. He manipulates his batter's body to wipe it's brow, and Kennedy is of course not far behind to offer a towel. "Getting a little hot over there bud?" Deft motions and wires attached to joins collect the towel, dab it upon a head incapable of sweating, and then drape ineffectively across a neck incapable of feeling comfort from the action. "Many thanks, Kennedy." His voice is tinged with an electric buzz that makes being this close to water uncomfortable. The bulk of his true form obscures his batter's body from the sun.

This does not stop Kennedy from smiling at him. "No problem, kiddo. Remember, I've got a few drinks in the cooler if you end up wanting one. Enough to go around!" There's a gentle thud as the cooler's lid closes, and Tillman settles back in his chair. "Not the capri suns though. They're all mine and I'll fuck you up if you try to take them. Be all over you like ugly on your face." Oliver offers a polite chuckle as the pitcher stakes his claim. He was, of course, not interested in the capri suns. Kennedy still frowns. "Aw c'mon Tilly, you need to learn to share one of these days. What would your boyfriend think?" Tillman splutters at even the mention of his significant other, though Oliver was uncertain if it was due to this being one of the myriad of poorly kept secrets in Blaseball, or if he simply did not want Delcan to be made aware of his capri sun hoarding ways.

In this fashion, the fishing trip continued. It was, as Oliver had divined from his research of the subject, an experience full of retro and introspection. Gazing into the murky depths of the Oldest Bay allowed one plenty of time to consider life. Kennedy offered up periodic advice upon the subject, drawing on what seemed like a nearly infinite reservoir of teachable experience. One could look at his un-carcinized form and think for a moment that he was the newest addition to the roster, instead of the venerable priest of the Mother that he actually was. Tillman behind him would offer nothing along the lines of assistance. One could mistake him for simply the worst, and while it was still difficult for Oliver to fully parse Tillman's best-to-worst rating, he had marked no less than twenty seven separate instances where Tillman had caused some form of physical harm or grief to someone attempting to make trouble for various members of the Baltimore Crabs.

It was much the same for the rest of the Crabs. Oliver felt as if he could count Forrest as his brother, despite no logical reasoning for such a thing. Finn James, beneath the waves still, had bonded with Oliver due to what Finn would joke to be their similar skin conditions, that being their mutual lack of human flesh. Brock often would offer him assistance with sourcing the more difficult parts Oliver would sometimes need to obtain using his connections. Montgomery would do this. Parker would do that. The Crabs would help him. The Crabs would support him.

None of them would press him to decide upon his identity.

It was unspoken within the team. His business was his own. Should he state something, they would accept it. In a world where many were uncertain about too much, the Crabs were unconcerned with attempting to force a label upon him. They could feel the Mother's touch upon him as they felt it upon themselves. That is all they needed.

Finn's light bobs up from the depths, and together Kennedy and Forrest help haul him to the standing surface of the peanut shell. In his mouth and hand was a length of intestine with many various forms of carcinized life tangled to it. The creatures found themselves added to a holding tank. To kill them before the trip was over meant the meat might spoil before they could get everyone together for a team cookout. In the back of his mind, Oliver goes over the baked macaroni recipe he had learned years ago. Tillman is forced to his feet to fend away the gulls with a few swings of the bat. Everyone agrees that he would be much better at batting than pitching. He tells everyone present to fuck off.

Oliver cannot smile. Neither of his faces are well equipped for the task. That's fine though, the same was true for several other Crabs. His great foreclaws tap along the surface of the ground and the same message is conveyed. Time slips by, Tillman gets a sunburn, no one else catches a single thing. At the end of the day, Kennedy stays behind to offer prayer to the Mother. Oliver runs a check on what he has in the fridge at home in an internal document. He wanted to make another test run of his dish, so he'll need to pick up some more bread crumbs. Maybe not from the park this time. There had been complaints about the grit.

He would be happy to try again though. The battered comb tangled upon one of the many wires within his shell glints in the streetlamp's light as Oliver walks the streets on the way back. These were experiences it was best to have sooner, rather than later. Yet another lesson from the Crabs.

Oliver would grow and evolve, until the day the red eye of an umpire fell upon him too. There was much to do.