"Aster? Earth to Aster!" The spriteful voice of Sylvia at once crept into Aster's ears, disengaging her from the trance the Cherryaire skyline had cast upon her as it sped past. She glanced up to see Sylvia's smiling yet inquisitive face peering back at her in the rear-view mirror.

“Hey Sylvia, would you like to keep your eyes on the road?” Cecil quipped. This however only worsened the situation, as Sylvia closed her eyes to blow a raspberry in response.

“I was asking Aster if she thinks Ted Tennebaum is gonna be there.”

“Who?” Aster mumbled. The stress of being thrown immediately into preparations for the show, as well as the noxious fear of Marienne looming in wait in her actuality, left Aster barely able to keep track of their setlist, much less any random celebrity in this world.

However, it didn't appear to be a random celebrity. At her unconcerned utterance, Marion and Cecil turned to her, visibly confused, as did Sylvia, whose eyes had once again left the road.

“Uh, what do you mean 'who?'” asked Marion. “He's like the biggest celebrity on television.”

“Ted Tennebaum's variety hour is where they play Zorgs from Europa, Aster! I've told you this a million times!”

Faced with the onslaught of Sylvia's yelling backed by Cecil's demands she keep her eyes on the road, Aster once again dissociated from the situation, and let her eyes wander back out to the scene of the magnificent city which passed them.

Aster at this moment was in short, a wreck. She had been given scarcely any time to prepare for what was undeniably their biggest engagement to date— returned to this world only just hours before, to the clamor of Sylvia, Cecil, and Marion busily loading up the van.

They had assured her their practice last night had gone 'actually well' and even Cecil appeared to not be totally dismayed in their chances, but Aster had no recollection of it. As far as she was concerned, she had not practiced at all.

She found herself instead deep in the throes of a terrible panic as the event and its magnitude finally began to impress itself upon her. She tried to concentrate on the moment ahead, to ready herself for their show, but another terror also vied for her trembling heart.

“I'm looking forward to next week.”

These were the parting words of Marienne as their first session came to a close.

With that simple, benign statement, she had invaded Aster's every thought and snuffed out all hope of solace. The idea of her inevitable return to 2066, now constantly on her mind, filled her with near unimaginable dread.

“Hey! I found it!” exclaimed Marion suddenly. Aster turned to find him holding open that week's edition of the Cherryaire Journal.

“Not too bad, huh?” He chuckled, singling himself out from a photograph of the band which was printed in faded ink.

“Come on, just read it,” Cecil complained.

“Alright, alright,” he groaned, then began to read the paragraph which accompanied it. “Meet the mysterious capers of the Peppermint Plains impromptu festival— a band of relentlessly talented young adults and their eccentric manager, who took Peppermint Plains by storm, seemingly of their own whim—”

He paused for a moment.

“And?” asked Sylvia with excitement.

He was scanning the paper with a frustrated expression.

“The band, comprised of Aster, Sylvia, and Cecil, and their roadie Marion—”

Sylvia couldn't help but respond with a snort.

“What the fuck is this man?!”

Cecil too, struggled to hold back an expression of amusement. “That's what you get for running off after Floyd before his assistant could take our names,” he interjected, attempting to adopt a scolding tone.

“What, and you couldn't just tell him for me?!”

“I did, but he was hardly paying attention.”

“Are you kidding me, man? I bought a fuckin' copy for my mom to frame!”

“Keep reading, Marion!” Sylvia demanded. But Marion had read enough, and tossed the paper towards Cecil, who snatched it while giving Marion a look of reproach.

“I'm gonna kick his ass I tell you,” Marion threatened.

“I'd rather you not increase the chances of this being a disaster,” retorted Cecil, who was thumbing through the pages for the band's photo.

“Find the part where he interviews me about a sponsorship for Cherry Charms cereal—”

“Sylvia, stop, I'm looking,” Cecil interjected, struggling to hold the paper straight as they crossed over into the pothole riddled city center. “...However, the band at times almost find themselves overshadowed by their steward, Albion Floyd—”

“Mr. Floyd!” cried Sylvia immediately.

“Does it say anything about his arrest?!” Marion shouted, snatching the paper from Cecil's hands.

“Chill out, Marion, Jesus.”

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Aster watched as he thumbed through the interview, his brow wrinkling in increasing disappointment as it came to the end of the page.

“Are you kidding me? Half this thing is just Sylvia talking about cereal, where the fuck is the scoop on Floyd? Can't they just go down to the jail and investigate?! Where is he man?”

“Mr. Floyd!” cried Sylvia again.

“It's been a week, man! He's gotta be in prison by now!”

“Marion, we're in Cherryaire. Why don't we just stop by the jail after the show?”

“I told you I've had my guys in there—”

“They're in there themselves every other week, why would they tell them anything—”

“Hey, you watch your mouth, okay? They're a lot better about that now.”

“Mr. Floyd!”

By this time, Aster had given up on blinking, preferring instead to stare wide-eyed out the window, casting her heavy, thousand-yard stare upon any who crossed it, eliciting looks of confusion from those who noticed those dark accents of apathy and misery staring right at them.

As she listened to them chatter and preen incoherently, she wondered why she didn't feel the same anxiety and worry for Floyd that they did. It would be untrue to say that she didn't care for him, albeit not to the degree of the others, but she did so enough to feel she should be worried. Still, her concern didn't manifest.

She wondered if it had to do with her knowledge of the artificiality of Peppermint Plains; how she controlled its outcomes in indeterminate ways. Through knowing that, she supposed she had a subconscious confidence in Floyd's safety, although she did wonder as intensely as they did about his whereabouts.

As this thought came to an end, the majestic facade of the Savoy Ballroom, time-worn and dressed with the eye of a bygone era, pulled into view outside of Aster's window. Her heart sank into her chest as she realized the moment had finally come, and its pressure now fully sat upon her.

“Come on, let's go get ready, Aster!” chirped Sylvia, sliding open the van door. But Aster did not move. She instead turned to her with skittish eyes, appearing to attempt a reply, but her lips only quivered like that of a breathless fish, whereupon her face flashed crimson, causing Aster to turn away.

She blamed herself for the weakness that was coursing through her body at that moment. For so long she had considered her usual tribulations and anxieties as the absolute nadir of woe that she inadvertently invited a much worse successor in the form of the total terror which now clawed at her heart. She cast her eyes forlorn down the street, regretful of how bad she once thought she had it.

“You alright?” interjected Marion, noticing Sylvia kneeling worryingly before Aster.

“I can handle it Marion, just go get the gear out of the van,” replied Sylvia.

“It's all in the venue now anyways,” he mumbled in response as he turned away, lighting a cigarette.

Cecil was standing with his back to the van, looking down the road of one of Cherryaire's major avenues.

“What is he thinking?” asked Cecil as Marion approached. He gestured at the expensive cars which beamed past them, and little by little began to fill the road.

“That we're the band for the job, hopefully.”

“Here, hand me that,” Cecil demanded, reaching for Marion's cigarette. “I think he just wants fireworks.”

“The bum wrote that I was the roadie, man. He couldn't cook up a scheme to save his life!”

Cecil took a drag, continuing to admire the notions of wealth which seemed draped over the aesthetic of the entire block. “Well then he has no clue what he's doing. I don't know which is worse.”

“What do you think about Aster?” Marion suddenly asked.

“How do you mean?”

“She's barely said a word since we've left. I mean, she's usually kinda weird but she's never been like this, has she? What if she doesn't even do the show?!”

Cecil peeked over his shoulder at the bushy apple-head poking over the seat.

“It's not her refusing to play that I'm worried about— she'll do it. I just don't know what she has planned, and that terrifies me.”

Marion sighed, and gestured for his cigarette back.

“You ever wonder why we're doing this for her? We hardly know her.”

Cecil glanced at him, still stuck on eyeing the opulence of the city center.

“We sorta just got roped into it, didn't we? I mean, I went through with it 'cuz everything else fell through and it's good to be consistently gigging, but it definitely hasn't started like any other band I've been in.” He glanced over the side of the van at Sylvia, who shot him an anxious look to signify her lack of progress.

“Yeah, but it's not entirely bad, is it? It dawned on me that if this makes it somewhere, it could do a lot for the guys— and my neighborhood. So I think it's worth toughin' out for the moment, even if it means having to wear Sísí's stupid hats.”

“It would really kill you to not wear leather, wouldn't it?” Cecil joked.

“What do you get out of this, anyways? You and Aster haven't exactly been two peas in a pod lately.”

Cecil waited a moment on his response. The early sunset of late winter had bled into the sky, beckoning a chorus of Christmas lights to wash the street in a sea of gold as the afternoon picked up.

“I'm just seeing where it goes, I guess. Aster has a lot of problems, but I don't think being a bad person is necessarily one of them. She's just very talented and knows it, and that hardly ever ends up well for anyone.”

He once again gestured for Marion's cigarette, but froze at the sight of a familiar face crossing the street.

"Good afternoon, gentleman!" waved Mareby-Roquefort as he made his way across the street towards their van.

"Come on Marion, let's—"

It was too late.

Marion's eyes lit up as the dapper man approached them. Cecil, fearing the fallout, grimaced and attempted to position himself beside the van as best he could.

“Well look who it is,” Marion grumbled, clenching his fists as he moved forward to meet their guest.

Mareby-Roquefort shot confused glances towards Sylvia, but nonetheless continued to close the gap.

“Well, yes,” Mareby-Roquefort replied hesitantly as Marion puffed out his chest. “Hoping for a great show this evening, everyone is abuzz about you!" he continued.

“Is that true? Abuzz to see Aster, Sylvia, and Cecil, I'm sure!”

“I'm sorry?”

“Listen here, Maury!” Marion barked, placing his index finger square onto Mareby-Roquefort's starched dress shirt. “I ain't no roadie. This band has no roadies. There's just my men and me— the drummer. You got that?”

The six-foot-plus Marion, face locked in a scowl, was an imposing sight to see towering over the delicate journalist. Mareby-Roquefort, sensing danger and picking up on the frantic, silent gestures of Sylvia and Cecil signaling for him to get out of there, began to run.

“We'll have to continue this interview after the show I'm afraid,” he yelled as he scrambled across the street.

Marion was taken aback for a moment by Mareby-Roquefort's quick escape, but soon followed in heated pursuit.

“I'm the bad boy of the group!” he screamed, narrowly avoiding the Rolls-Royce which seemed to compose traffic on both sides of the street.

Cecil looked on as Marion's yells grew distant, and the two in their cat and mouse pursuit disappeared into the theater.

“We're completely screwed,” he muttered to himself.

Breaking from his position beside the van, he ventured over to check on Aster, who Sylvia was still dutifully attempting to coax into some manner of comfort.

It apparently had worked.

As he rounded the corner he was greeted by the van's door sliding open fully, as Aster finally revealed herself. The short statured girl, barely able to make her way up to the van's seat to begin with, struggled to descend as she dangled her legs above the street. Cautiously, Sylvia worked to help her down, holding on as she stumbled and slipped in the icy winter mix.

She appeared the spitting image of a newborn foal— shaky, unsure, and insecure. Nevertheless, Sylvia and Cecil watched on in total suspense, eager to see what she finally had to say.

"...It's fucking freezing, let's get inside," she stuttered out between clattering teeth.