“Repeat after me: my name is Aster!”

Aster looked up at Sylvia, who beamed. “I'm the leader of the coolest band in the world and we've just started our first tour ever! Living on a tour bus with my best friend Sylvia is super-neato, and—”

And her words, like a spring parade of dandelion seed, drifted innocently and inconsequentially into Aster's mind, carpeting the field within in a safe haze through which the looming threat of that night's press conference could not touch her.

“Anyone who's anyone will be there,” Mareby-Roquefort had remarked earlier of the journalists to be in attendance, before adding, “My contacts at the Gazette aren't just for show!” and he gave the group a wink which caused Marion to shudder and sent a chill down Aster's spine, for she could see in that wink the self-assuredness of someone knowing they'd just set themselves up for grand success and now had only to wait for it— he meant with all sincerity that the press conference would be massive. And as the victorious, confidence-nurturing glow of their album party faded into the receptacle of memory deep inside Aster's brain she found herself at the mercy of that torture that haunts all those prone to severe anxiety— an impending, impossible trial which is the border between life lived and the end of life itself. Because as far as Aster could see it there was no getting through the press conference any more than there was surviving the epicenter of a nuclear blast. All of her social victories up until now, as trying, fatiguing, and hard-won as they were, meant nothing in the face of this sure defeat. Her bandmates' assurances that she had not to utter a single word, that they would jump in and cover for any mishap that could befall her, could still not engender the future as any definite possibility. It didn't matter if she had rehearsed the conference over and over a trillion times, had studied famous Q&As like a sculptor would study Michelangelo; it was an anxiety that snuffed out logic and dulled the analytical senses of Aster's brain so that the only thing which now made sense was the feeling of impending doom which currently pervaded every aspect of the world.

“She's still in awe of that diner's jukebox,” Marion interrupted, kicking his feet languidly up on the seat in front of him. The afternoon sun was in full bloom, and sunshine was pouring through the bus' windows which were open to let in fresh air, stopping where rows of the band's laundry hung from luggage hooks and made impromptu curtains.

“Mr. Floyd's gonna kill you if he sees your dirty boots on the seat again!” Sylvia snapped, and Marion rolled his eyes.

“We're all paying for this thing!” he protested, cocking his head towards the window in search of him. “And they're not dirty!”

There was a stirring from the very back of the bus as Cecil appeared from aside a seat, leaning into the aisle.

“Isn't that Mareby's two-track?” he asked, looking at Sylvia who was holding a tape recorder and a tiny pen-shaped microphone up to Aster. Sylvia perked up with a smug smile.

“Yeah, I'm helping Aster practice!” she answered proudly. “If we go over all the questions they'll ask, and make Aster a pro at answering them, then there's no way it'll go wrong!”

Cecil grimaced. “You do realize you've just cursed us by saying that, right?”

“Come on, man, what's with the doom and gloom all the time?” Marion groaned over the sound of Sylvia blowing a raspberry. “Ever since we left you've been on about something. We're on the open road! We're travelers, poets of the pavement, man. Would it kill you to lighten up and enjoy the adventure?”

“We've been parked outside a telegraph office for an hour.”

“Cecil's right!” Sylvia shouted. (Deeply surprised that such an utterance would ever leave her lips.) “Mr. Floyd was really serious about us not messing this up!”

“Yeah, and there's more doom and gloom!” Marion quipped, turning back in his seat. “That man always thinks someone's out to get him.”

“Have we ever proved him wrong?” countered Cecil.

“I'm serious!” Sylvia continued, pounding her fists against the top of the seat. “He had that scary look in his eye, the one he gets whenever Cecil accidentally puts something on sale! If we mess this up he's going to eat us!”

“What?!” cried Marion.

“We're not going to mess anything up,” Cecil assured her. “Every paper and station in the area is going to be there— we can't afford to.” And with this Sylvia's face went as red as Aster ringing up a customer. Marion ducked behind his seat.

“Cecil, you dummy!” she exploded, throwing a shoe towards the back of the bus. “That's not what she needs to hear!” And she turned to comfort Aster whose pupils had been constricted by fear to the size of a pinhole. “He's lying,” she cooed as Cecil angrily rambled in the background. “There's going to be nobody there!”

“Then we're losers?” Aster mewled in response.

“Come on!” Sylvia rallied, hoisting up the microphone again. “Tell me all about the inspiration for the album! Just what provoked you to make it so lovey-dovey?!”

“I was forced at the behest of capitalism to market my creativity like a streetwalker in the hopes that it'd sell as easily as one.”

“I thought we were just going to do all the talking for her?” Marion whispered, looking back at Cecil whose eyes were wide in horror.

“I want Aster to be able to talk about her music!” Sylvia shot back, again flushing red. “We're her band, remember?! This is a big moment for her! This is our introduction to the world!”

“Well, if that's the case, then,” Cecil replied, looking down the aisle at Aster. “Do you want to try answering questions at the conference?”

Her chest rose in surprise and her eyes twinkled with determination. “Of course I do!” she growled, burying her face into her raised knees.

"Alright, then,” Cecil continued, his voice now serious. “What do you think of Bonnie Godiva, your sworn rival?”

Sylvia stood up and stepped into the aisle, pouting. "That's no fair, Cecil!” she exclaimed, throwing her fists to her sides. “You know she's Aster's favorite!"

"You think that'll stop Kyrietone from busting our asses if she answers that?" he rebutted. “You heard Mareby at the party yesterday— we're at war with her label. That usually means not speaking highly of your enemy.”

“Aster's not at war with anybody!” Sylvia cried, exasperated.

“None of us are,” he asserted. “But I think it's important to be ready for anything they might throw at us. This is our first press conference; you know they're going to be desperate to get any headline they can, and it'd be best if we didn't piss off our label while we're at it.”

“You think they'd really pull something like that?” asked Marion. “Pitting two artists together?”

“They're a record label,” replied Cecil. “They'd try anything if it pushed a sale.”

And Aster concurred, though Sylvia was right— Bonnie Godiva, at least within the musical canon of Peppermint Plains, had become one of her favorite artists.

Ever since Cecil had thrown her records on that fateful night, Aster found herself returning to them. There was something in those simple compositions, in that awkward, immature, yet holy voice that seemed to transcend mere songcraft; where others saw delightful pop songs, Aster spied a hidden city of gold, winking through the thicket. Before she even knew it she had transcribed and learned the bass parts to all her songs, memorized their lyrics, and came to the conclusion that Bonnie Godiva was the foremost artist in this world— above even herself.

She had no choice but to face the fact she had discovered one of her favorite artists of all time. And this should've delighted Aster, because finding an all-time favorite artist is like reuniting with a lost piece of your soul you had never realized was misplaced; you became more whole for welcoming them into your life. But, Aster lamented, Bonnie Godiva's music was the product of artificial intelligence— the entire reason for her journey to Peppermint Plains in the first place. She felt incredibly childish at sticking to the distinction, but if she truly accepted her love for Godiva's music, what would that make her other than the greatest hypocrite?

But Aster, she thought rhetorically. You've already accepted everyone in Peppermint Plains as real; what harm is there in accepting Godiva's music as genuinely good?

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

And Aster found she had no answer. It was true— she would die for the acceptance of her bandmates as real. She even found herself moved by some of Cecil and Sísí's poetry. Yet she could still not accept that music, the most ephemeral of all art, could come from outside a human. Because if the enemy wasn't Bon Bon Tsubomi, then who was it?

—

“She is one of my favorites,” Aster at last answered.

“See?!” Sylvia shot back, pointing excitedly at Aster.

“I wasn't disputing that!” Cecil yelled. “Did you even listen to anything I said?”

“Yeah, I did, and it was lame! We're not gonna tell Aster to lie!” she shouted, and Cecil began to glower.

“You know what? You're right,” he relented, rising from his seat. He made his way down the aisle, continuing as he passed them. “Why am I defending a fucking record label?”

“Where are you going?” Marion called after him.

“To get some fresh air before Floyd comes back screaming about whatever held him up. I'll be at the bookstore; if I don't get something to read I'm not making it through the rest of this trip.”

Sylvia's eyes trailed Cecil as he stepped out of the bus and into the city, brightening as a thought lit up the interior of her mind.

“I don't see why he's getting so worked up,” Marion mumbled, watching as he made his way down the street.

“That's it!” she suddenly peeped, a twinkle in her eye.

“What's it?” Marion asked.

“Aster, do you think you'd be able to make it through the press conference if we were able to see Godiva afterward?”

Aster's eyes widened. “See Godiva?”

“Yeah, like, in concert!”

“We can do that?” she mumbled, coming to life. The mere idea of even holding Godiva in her sight, let alone hearing her music live was enough to resuscitate Aster's panicked heart.

“Why not?” Sylvia replied, gleeful in the face of her friend's revival. “We have our day off, right? Maybe she'll be in a town nearby!” And then she stuck her tongue out as another idea came to her. She rose and began rifling through various bags and suitcases that were piled up across the aisle. “I know I put the list of our tour dates somewhere,” she said and then turned back to Aster. “And I have this month's Jingle Jangle Journal, so we can check and see where she's playing!”

Aster's heart leapt; she became a child crouched beneath the Christmas tree as her glowing, excited eyes watched Sylvia grab a bag and begin to unzip it. The thought that their tours could line up, that she could see Godiva in person; the very possibility of it all was enough to reduce the press conference into a mere inconvenience, for as long as she held the hope in her heart.

Aster waited, her breath catching as Sylvia reached into the bag. She was standing tiptoe on the precipice of absolute elation, waiting to be carried away by that tidal wave of relief the second Sylvia produced that magazine and told her that her dream was so. But Sylvia shrieked, and threw the bag down the aisle as if it had been on fire.

“Yo, what the fuck?!” Marion suddenly shouted, bolting from his nap. He shot up, scanning the bus in a panic. Sylvia was stumbling back, gagging. He began running down the aisle towards them.

“Marion...” she choked out, going pale.

“Hold on!” he called, and tried with all his might to close the distance, though his legs felt as though they were made of lead. “Just hold on!”

“Marion's dirty sock!” she suddenly yelled, kicking him dead in the thigh with all her strength. “I'm gonna puke!”

Marion collapsed onto his right knee, clutching his thigh and its spasmodic muscles as the pain spiderwebbed throughout his upper leg. His eyes danced in shock and in their spiraling noticed the dizzy images of socks, boxers, dress shirts, and belts, scattered the length of the entire bus— the bag's contents.

Marion, forgetting his pain, got up and rushed over to retrieve the articles. “That's my laundry!” he cried, beginning to gather them up.

“That's my bag!” Sylvia contended. “Why are you stuffing your undies in my bag?!”

“Man, I don't know! It was dark and we have all these empty bags everywhere, and I didn't want to wake Floyd because he starts screaming and— you didn't have to kick me you freakin' twerp!”

And as battle erupted Aster spied a copy of the Jingle Jangle Journal on the floor. She lurched toward it, heart racing as she began to flip through pages.

Tour dates... tour dates...

“You see this, Marion?!” Sylvia cried as she traced a marker up and down the circumference of the bus. “This is the girl's side! You got that?!”

“Are you drawing on the bus?!” he shouted in disbelief, gawking at the thick black line that went from floor to ceiling.

“It's a border!”

At long last Aster found the page showing tour dates. Her finger hit the page and began, name by name, to scan the directory of cities. The band's single day off was at the mid-point of the tour, a week away. And while Aster did not have all of their dates memorized she did at least, by way of her and Sylvia excitedly planning this vacation, know the name of that city in which they'd resting— Partridge Heights.

Her finger reached the letter ‘P’ and her hopeful heart trembled. To be able to see her would be the crowning moment on what was already— her first tour ever— a small dream come true.

She would not be playing near the town on that day, the journal said. At once a darkness came over Aster more terrible than the fear the press conference had inspired, and she kicked herself for ever even daring to believe.

Sylvia caught sight of her dejected form sagging from the corner of her eye and left Marion to scream at nothing as she made her way back to her.

“Aster! What's wrong?!” she called out, taking a seat beside her. Aster showed her the journal, which Sylvia scanned, herself growing disappointed as she confirmed that the groups' dates did indeed not match up. A glum look followed but this was banished the second she realized she was being anything less than the ultimate beacon of hope.

“And what will you say when you finally meet Godiva?” she asked, once again holding up the microphone to Aster's face. Aster looked up in mild astonishment, Sylvia's defiant optimism stunning the depression that so eagerly wished to take hold of her. Aster couldn't help but laugh, and felt stupid for smiling when she was so miserable, but what else was there to do? Her heart was like a flower opening its petals to a shower of sun in the face of Sylvia's positivity; there was nothing to do but succumb. As for Sylvia's question, there was no possible way to know. She had a world of things she wanted to say to that chanteuse, questions to ask about her music, her inspiration, her worldview, and her life; such was the concept of Aster meeting with an equal creative mind for the first time in her life— the joy was delirious.

“Hey, that's not the end of this,” Marion suddenly cried, coming up the aisle, but then stopped, seeing the clouds of Floyd's hair rise up the stairs.

“This—” Floyd cried, looking wrathfully into the bus. In his arm he held a folder. “This is what I mean when I say that you are the scions of chaos; when I rock myself to sleep with prayers that you won't do to the press call what you have done at every event since. Can I not take fifteen minutes on very important business without overhearing what sounds like someone being murdered outside?!” His pupils then suddenly constricted, tiny islands on the milky white of his sclera as his eyes widened. “Is that paint on the bus?!” he shrieked, looking at Sylvia's border. Cecil was coming up behind him and Mareby-Roquefort followed. Floyd threw the stack of papers at Cecil and began marching forward.

“It's because of Marion's stinky socks!” Sylvia yelled defiantly as Floyd thundered forward.

“What?!” he hollered manically, whipping his head from the line of demarcation to Sylvia sitting firm in her resolve.

“Marion put his stinky laundry on the girl's side of the bus, so I separated us!”

He stopped, then looked again at the thick black line that stretched from one side of the bus, up the ceiling, and to the other. The back of the bus was not visible: she had erected a barricade of suitcases and clothes in the meantime to cut off all sight of it.

“Floyd, you can't let her do this, man! We're all paying for the bus!” sounded Marion's muffled complaints through the clothes. Floyd wrenched them apart to find Marion kicking back in his seat.

“What did I say about those disgusting boots?!” Floyd screeched, raising his cane.

“I told you! He's gonna eat you, Marion!” yelled Sylvia.

“Yeah, I'd like to see him try!” he yelled, bolting upright. “Come on, Floyd. Show me what—”

"Between you and that record label I have no time to be—"

"What do you mean? What about our record label?” Cecil interrupted.

"They rearranged your tour a bit," chimed in Mareby-Roquefort, smilingly. Floyd halted his cane above Marion's head, stepping back.

"They completely redid it!" he screamed. "Every date is changed! Every route I planned is gone! Am I not the booking agent?!"

"Whoa, hold on," interjected Cecil, stepping into the aisle. He stopped and then took a close look at the papers he was holding. They were copies of their tour itinerary. His eyes widened as they scanned them. "Floyd, there's twenty-one dates on here?!" he exclaimed, and the band looked back at him in astonishment.

"Now there's a challenge!" Marion cried, rising, but Sylvia glowered. "What about me and Aster's vacation?" she inquired nervously, stealing a copy from Cecil. Her peppermint swirl eyes scanned the lines. A frown followed.

"They moved our day off!" she howled.

"What gives, man?!" exclaimed Cecil and Marion in unison; Marion looking at Floyd and Cecil at Mareby-Roquefort.

"With things as heated as they are right now between Kyrietone and Magnolia Haus, Kyrietone thought it appropriate to step in and really make sure that the tour was being properly utilized as a strategic element; to draw first blood, if you will."

"By trampling all over my rights as a manager!" screamed Floyd, his neck fleshing out with veins. "I had every intention to send them a telegram telling them I'd see to their graves personally, before—"

"Before I stepped in and mentioned how cunning it was to organize the dates so that they coincided with the first leg of Bonnie Godiva's world tour!" The bus went suddenly silent. A wave of glee washed across Aster's face.

"Really?!" she suddenly exclaimed, then grew embarrassed at the outburst.

"Yes! Every date lines up; that is the kind of strategy you find at the higher levels of the industry," Mareby-Roquefort blushed a sheepish blush and turned his face demurely downwards as if being approached for a formal.

Sylvia hugged Aster, squealing with glee. "That's so great! That means we can go see her live after all!"

A cough from Mareby-Roquefort. "See Bonnie Godiva live? Well, that's not possible."

"Huh? What do you mean?" asked Cecil behind him.

"Well, Kyrietone does not want the band or their entourage seen anywhere near any personnel associated with Magnolia Haus. I'm sure you understand."

"That's not fair, though!" cried Sylvia, rising. "Aster wants to see her! How can they stop her?!" She marched down the aisle towards Mareby-Roquefort. Cecil frowned all the while, his eyes casting a regretful told-you-so.

"Because they pay for your music," answered Mareby-Roquefort coldly as Sylvia completed her march before him. "I know it's unfortunate, but success is like chess in a way. It's—"

"I'm gonna kick him!" screamed Sylvia, winding up her leg.

"Sylvia," Aster called. "It's alright, I'll be fine."