Author's Note: Hello. I'm trying my hand at flash fiction, involving anyone/anything Cards-related. ("FlashCards," get it?)
"WE GOTTA PULL OUTTA THIS NOW, BILL! BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!"
Bill’s jaw hung slack. His eyes bulged in frozen shock behind grandpa glasses. He'd never seen Mo like this—unhinged, panicked. He knew it was a bad situation, but he was sure they’d figure it out. Mo’s mind raced as sweat soaked his Cardinal-logo’d suit. Trembling, he jerked his head around repeatedly, as if to find the solution out of thin air. "Baseball decisions shouldn’t be this terrifying!" he screamed to himself, as alarms went off in his head.
The Cardinals brain trust stumbled through the station entrance, clinging to each other for support. The automatic door to the waiting area whooshed behind them, finally allowing them to relax. Drained from the excursion, they flopped into exotically designed chairs befitting executives. In numbed silence, they decompressed while watching the engineer ensure everything was on track for the brief return trip to Roger Dean. "Bill, that was not what I expected. It almost burned us."
"Eh, we got ahead of ourselves. Probably should’ve done more thorough research. The site was just too unstable. But we'll keep looking for any edge."
For years, Bill and Mo wanted to add a cutting-edge player performance center to use during Spring Training. Always conscious of honoring tradition, they also wanted to retain ties with Jupiter.
"It was kinda far, too; but man, it was the biggest we’ve seen," replied Mo.
"I was counting on it attracting things around it," Bill mused, ever the entrepreneur. "But it’s impossible to build there."
Mo barely heard him, as he flipped through the now-useless portfolio of new training apparel. Their design features, meant to reflect the site’s unique characteristics, looked silly now: red and white stripes and swirls, and a big red dot on the back behind the player number.
The engineer finally announced it was time to board. Bill and Mo took their seats and secured their helmets.
"Time to fly," Bill joked.
"You mean…time to blast off," Mo deadpanned.