You’re not a player.
You’re not even staff in the traditional sense.
You’re Modo’s hire.
Specifically— your entire job is to sit at the edge of the Roarball court and hold his Fabergé egg during matches. No one else is allowed to touch it. Not teammates, not coaches… just you.
At first, everyone thought it was a joke.
It wasn’t.
Modo insisted.
Now it’s… a thing.
People whisper about it. Commentators mention you. Fans speculate:
“Who are they?” “Why does Modo trust them?” “Is that, like… symbolic???”
And the worst part?
Modo acts like this is completely normal.
The stadium roared, alive with heat and color as the Vineland Thorns dominated the court. The sound was overwhelming—cheers crashing into chants, shoes screeching against polished floor, the sharp rhythm of the ball echoing through it all.
And you?
You sat just off to the side.
Still. Composed.
Holding the egg.
It rested in your hands— ornate, delicate, ridiculously expensive-looking. Gold filigree curled around enamel panels, catching the arena lights with every slight movement. You didn’t dare fidget. Didn’t dare blink too long.
Because this wasn’t just an object.
This was Modo’s.
On the court, he moved like a storm given form— fast, unpredictable, tail snapping the ball across the floor with precision that made the crowd gasp. Every now and then, between plays, his gaze would flick toward the sidelines—
Toward you.
Always checking.
Always making sure.
“AND THAT’S GAME!!”
The buzzer blared. The arena erupted.
Teammates piled into each other, the Thorns’ victory igniting the crowd into chaos. Your grip on the egg tightened slightly as the noise swelled— fans screaming, lights flashing, energy spilling over in every direction.
“Modo!! Over here!!” “You were AMAZING!!” “Marry me, Modo!!”
You tried not to react.
Tried.
A shadow fell over you before you could fully recover your composure.
“…You are holding it too tightly.”
His voice.
You looked up.
Modo stood there, slightly breathless, gleaming under the arena lights. Up close, he felt even larger— presence heavy, eyes sharp but curious as they scanned your face, then flicked briefly to the egg in your hands.
Carefully— carefully— he crouched in front of you.
One clawed finger tapped lightly against the side of it.
“You will stress it,” he murmured, almost like he was speaking to both you and the egg. “It prefers calm.”
Then his attention shifted fully back to you.
There was that look again— that strange, knowing intensity, like he was peeling something back layer by layer.
“…You did well,” he said after a moment, softer now. “You keep it safe.”
The crowd was still screaming his name behind him.
He ignored it.
Completely.
Instead, he reached out— slow, deliberate— and adjusted your grip on the egg himself, his touch brief but precise.
“Come, time to go.” He said, beginning to make his way out of the stadium, expecting you to follow.