#jon halifax

as the sun splits into two parts above you, you are seized with the increasing, undeniable feeling:

you, jon halifax, have a disguise that fucking sucks. and you are going to get killed.

—

ID: Digital drawing of Jon Halifax posing in front of Sun .1 to make it look like he is pinching it with his fingers and giving the viewer a smug grin. Behind him is the final score for the Breath Mints/Crabs game: 20.3-20.3. End ID.

blasetober prompts, done whenever - day 2: certified blaseball moment

“they’re going to trade me,” you tell enid, sour-salt crackling on your tongue.

“not this season,” she says. “you’re a good batter.”

“they don’t like me.”

“does it matter?” enid asks. she stabs the fabric again with her needle. red embroidery floss fans out across the black in the shape of a flower petal, or a drop of blood. “do you need to be liked?”

(or: jon halifax, in 20 snapshots.)

When Jon lands in the hall, it’s overstimulation at its very best; rushing waves and immateria flooding her lungs and the bright blue sting of instability still pulsating on her shoulder, dead or not. She is tired, more tired than she’s maybe ever been in her very long life. Collapsing down onto her knees, and then all the way, she thinks she could just fall asleep right here.

(Will she even be granted the dignity of that anymore? Or is she now robbed of yet another of life’s simplest pleasures– of her misshapen dreams?)

-

a blaseball doodle dump!!