Aster recalled the pits beneath Neothevalley as a brilliant, shining crimson. Not that the pits had ever been that bright in real life – they were dark, crusty messes of filth and grime. But when Aster stood among them, there had been such a crash of adrenaline that the emotion, the pure action and fear and thrill, created its own illumination.
Aster remembered being lowered beneath the pits for the first time, muted by some invisible muzzle. The Prospector had promised misery, and a glimpse at Aster’s countrymen confirmed that promise. Highland pangolins are highly intelligent, verbal, social beings as a whole, but in this place, none could speak or explain how wrong this all was. These people had experienced horro. But to the Prospector’s… friends?... they must have seemed nothing more than beasts of burden.
They lined the walls, the silent pangolins, painted in blues, reds, and greens to delineate their “levels.” Aster didn’t know what his fresh coat of azure meant at the time, but would later discover the hidden truth: “Lowest level. Untested. Disposable.”
It had been four days of waiting, unwillingly chained below the pits, when little Turner visited Aster for the first time. Aster glanced up with a dark recognition: it was the Prospector’s young son. But if Turner had any hint of his father’s betrayal in him, Aster never saw it. Over the next three weeks, Turner treated all of the pangolins with respect: young and old, blue and red, ornery and resigned. And Turner gave them all names, the type of names that a 4-year-old would come up with. Fluffy, Scratches, Curlysue.
“Johnnyboy! Awww, you look sad! Frowns. You need some cuddles.” Aster tried to shout, to explain, “I am a person! I have a name! Please.” But no sound, other than the scratching of Turner’s little hands against his fur. Truthfully, it was the only kindness Aster had been shown in this long isolation. The frustration was unbearable. Aster cried silently onto Turner’s shirt.
Turner was an instinctive child. He didn’t know what happened in the pits above, but when he saw Johnnyboy return from his second trip up, he knew that it was bad. And when he saw his father’s face, he knew things were worse. The time was coming. They would have to leave, and the panglings wouldn’t be coming with them. On the way past, Turner whispered “I have to leave, but it will be okay little pangling Johnnyboy. It will be okay.”
It was to be their last night at the pits. Turner stayed up, furiously searching for answers on his tiny phone, his only connection to the outside world. He typed in the same words, over and over and over: “Help panglings. Help panglings. Help Help Help.”
Turner and Aster, across the cavern from one another, both noticed the soft blue light appear and disappear. Aster couldn’t make out the figure – some sort of human? – who spoke with Turner, but they could feel that almost forgotten tug of hope as Turner pointed. The figure disappeared once more in a golden flicker, but Turner walked over with a smile on his face. “Here little Johnnyboy, this is a pen! It can make a color appear on a paper, just like the paint on your scales! I know a way to help you – all you need to do is make a mark with the pen right here. Can you do that?”
Turner guided Aster’s claws around the pen, not knowing that Aster used to write 25 pages a night before all of this. Aster’s face fell. The dream of a rescue was just that: a dream. Grabbing the pen, Aster wrote “Thank you for trying” on the signature line of… whatever this was. Aster knew it didn’t matter. No legal document would be enough down here.
Turner was scrunching up his eyes to try to read Aster’s writing when the Prospector appeared and commanded the attention of the whole room. “Now, Turner.” He grabbed his son’s arm, and they fled out to the pit above.
The sound of sirens approaching, and then growing distant. Then silence. This… was this the end? The soft blue light reappeared, and Aster could feel the shackles being removed. They started to float. And the pit was farther and farther away, but more blue lights appeared near the other pangolins, and then a sound like someone flipping a coin, and then….
ONE YEAR LATER
The memory ended. Aster watched from third base as the outfield began to lift into the sky. Huh. So, the last out REALLY meant the last out, then? Time for the contingency plan… and all of the Neohio Wyrms slipped straight down through the Wyrmhole and into the secret tunnels.
Aster stuck with the plan, of course. There had been a whole season to prepare, after all. “Well, Aster, it’s been a terrific run. I really think we could have won this one.” “I’m gonna miss ya, friendly! Don’t forget to visit if and when physics ever allows it to happen!” Sammy even got in a wisecrack: "Hey Aster, you couldn't steal home and keep the sky from falling? Oh well, THANK YOU FOR TRYING at least HAHAHAHAHA." The other Wyrms trotted, skedaddled, and blipped out of there. Aster finished their goodbyes, and took 7 quick right turns down the passage to Ohio.
The paperwork was familiar. “You sure you want to do this, kid?” Aster wasn’t sure, but there wasn’t much left for them in Neohio. “Yeah, let’s do it.” “Alright, for the record, make sure to write down your name exactly as you want it. I forget to tell people sometimes, but this thing is REALLY legally binding.”
Aster knew. On the familiar signature line, they wrote “Aster.” Just before the paper was whisked away, Aster said “Wait.” Things were different now. Scary, but at least they had some control over their life. Well, some influence. Something akin to freedom. And this time, Aster had a real choice. Aster hadn’t seen Turner since that mysterious night, but they hadn’t forgotten what he had done. So Aster lowered the pen back the page, and with a confident flourish, added a forename to the signature: “Johnnyboy.”
