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There is a myth shared by fans and players of Blaseball alike that claims a good pre-game ritual is needed to stave off the hot gaze of the umpire. True or not, there are whispers after each incineration that a player forgot, that they mixed up some steps, that they were interrupted in the middle of their ritual. The Yellowstone Magic were no exception to this rule, each player abiding by their own ritual before a game. Wouldn’t want to end up like Sosa, like Famous... The promise of release offered by incineration is not enough to staunch the fear of the great beyond.
Washer Barajas sees plenty of objects dropped into geys waters, by forgetful children or clumsy adults. Gey lifts a pillar of water, holding it securely in geys grasp, and nudges the owner on their shoulder. The deed is always appreciated, and the person usually wants an autograph to boot. Geys teammates hear all about the exchange when gey comes to hang out on a lunch break, Washer babbling giddily with the excitement and nerves of the oncoming game.
Sutton Picklestein owns a Rublik’s cube, from back when their physical form still clung to them. The paint on each piece is faded now, but still clear enough to solve the puzzle by. They break each cube off of the main frame, then meticulously click each one back into place- a red, yellow, green, blue, white and orange side. They never were much good at solving the thing conventionally, their mind unable to grasp the algorithms. Besides, they didn’t have the time to learn how nowadays.
Francisco Preston flips a burger on the grill, observing the perfect blueness of the sky and listening to the crickets chirping in the long grass. The weather is beautiful, perfect for a barbecue. His teammates nap in a pile nearby, an exhausted tangle of limbs human and other alike. When they wake, they’re ravenously hungry and crowd around a picnic bench while Francisco dutifully composes plates for each. “Not bad, huh?” he chuckles, taking a bite of a hotdog, and the others immediately correct him that not only is it good, it’s great. The compliments would feel better if they were organic, Francisco thinks, and he cannot shake the knowledge that this peace is terribly impermanent.
Bevan Wise eats later than the others. Francisco brings a plate to him by the lake, and carefully looks out over the water as the arcanist lifts the food to his mouth. The sun is beginning to set, orange and pink. The water is black where the light doesn’t glint. Food had seemed so simple and mundane to Bevan for years. He used to wish he could’ve done away with it entirely and simply photosynthesized; it would leave more time for exploring. But the movements of eating a meal- the washing of hands, the laying of the table, the chewing and swallowing- each step works together to create a neat little good luck charm. And Bevan has to admit, Francisco isn’t half bad on the grill either.
Richardson Turquoise is not exactly technically minded but they feel somewhat of an obligation to help out Cory Twelve where they can. After all, it was partly the little robot’s efforts that got Turq to where they are today. Whether that’s a good place or not, Turq can’t decide, but at least Blaseball was more exciting than drifting aimlessly in a body of water. So Turq helps to get Cory Twelve’s systems up to date, aiding the Yellowstone lab members by circling tools in and out of their amorphous form when needed. When Cory Twelve’s camera shutter flickers and Cory Twelve wheels back and forward experimentally, still a bit groggy, each part of Turq respirates in relief and satisfaction at a job well done.
Penelope Mathews is large, brave, made of rock, and rarely, if ever, flinches or pleads. But here she stands before the game, waiting in the wings, whispering to herself. “ Yellowstone, please hear me in this time of need. Although I fail to channel your magic, I feel your presence in my being and trust in your power to carry us to a swift victory. My teammates will play well, I will play well. My bat will strike true, the glove will cradle the ball, the trophy will be brought home and so too will I, alive and solid. I was born of the heat of your heart and it is all I want to safely return to your warm light again… Please heed your child’s call.”
Halexandrey Walton finds herself riled up before a game, padding in circles and yipping, bounding halfway across the park and back again in an effort to burn off her nervous energy. She catches sight of a squirrel that is too quick for her and whines at the base of a tree, anxiety riddling her belly. Too skittish to focus on anything to catch, she resigns herself to an attempt at relaxation. Dust in her fur and mud on her paws, Halexandrey returns with her tail between her legs to a hot bath drawn for her by one of her teammates, a few drops of chamomile oil diffused in the water. Once she’s shaken the water from her fur and has curled up in a nest of blankets, she falls easily into her dreams, a teammate gently scratching her head.
Eizabeth Elliot is not the best cook in Yellowstone, but that doesn’t stop her from enjoying the process. Ever since she was small, her favourite meal had been spaghetti. When Eizabeth received an A on her report card her mother would make it. She uses the recipe from her childhood but is never able to get it to taste the same. Eizabeth overcooks the noodles, never al dente as her mother had preferred. There is too much for her to eat on her own, so she divides the leftovers up into tupperware containers and gifts them to her teammates. Nothing like spaghetti to forge a friendship.
Oscar Dollie takes a knee in the middle of the trees at the dead of night. It is not scared of the dark as so many of its teammates are, who claim to have “seen things” lurking at the corners of their visions. Oscar finds it funny (well, funny as it is physically capable of finding things “funny”) that they think strange things would bother with lurking. It sinks pale fingers into the leaf mulch and soil, listening to the sound of wildlife ebb away in its presence. It smiles and sighs, taking a moment to enjoy the silence, before it opens its mouth and begins to recite its oath to home. Above it, the dark night sky ripples like a lake disturbed by a skipping stone.
Yeong-Ho Garcia wakes up early the day before the game to Grandma sat on his chest, purring. He sings to her as he makes bacon and eggs for breakfast. She purrs, tangling herself in his ankles and rubbing her face on his legs. When Grandma was still a human, she would come and take videos of his choir performances on a big clunky camera that got in the way of every other parent watching. She didn’t even notice, she was so proud. Yeong-Ho wonders if she can remember the songs. Either way, he continues to sing, and the bacon sizzles in the skillet.
Logan Rodriguez curls his hands into fists to hide his finger tips. He was never under the impression that he had very attractive hands, calloused from years of work in the wilderness, fingers blunt and square. But he’s picked up an irritating habit recently, one that you could call a ritual, if you were generous with your definitions. He is a determined player, not a good one, and it causes him no small amount of worry. He bites his nails down to the quick before each game. When they bleed, he bandages them and waits for them to grow again.
Inky Rutledge clambers out of the tub he sleeps in and rubs his eyes with his “hands”, regarding the calendar pinned up next to the mirror. The next game is coming up. Inky makes herself a cup of tea and takes it with her into her garden. She has a small rock garden that she arranged almost all by herself (well, Eizabeth helped). In the centre is a gong, a mallet laid on top of it. Inky takes a sip of their tea and sets it aside, grasping the mallet in one of their “hands”. He strikes the gong in the centre, listening to the sound ring out in the early morning. A bird takes off from the surrounding trees, trilling. Inky takes another sip of their tea.
Curry Aliciakeyes says: “smile for the camera!” and takes a blurry snapshot of Washer yawning and stretching geys nebulously defined arms. The geyser swipes for them halfheartedly, like a spoiled cat. Curry flitters away giggling, and from the branch of a tree captures a candid of Penelope practicing her batting, a furrow in her brow. Next is Halex, her wet nose pressed close to the lens, sniffing the phone. On their camera roll is a selfie with Yeong-Ho, his fingers held up in a peace sign, an arm around Curry’s shoulders. There’s even a distant picture of Sutton, loathe as Curry is to possess it. They don’t bother trying to take one of Oscar- the file always corrupts. Curry's storage is almost full, but they can’t bring themself to delete a single picture. They don’t know what might come of the next game, and each picture serves as a memory. Well, they’ll just have to buy a new memory card, they decide.
Cory Twelve is not programmed to set fires. In fact, setting fires is rather counterintuitive to Cory Twelve’s directive. But they set fires anyhow, because doing what Cory Twelve has been programmed to do wouldn’t make a very good ritual. Cory Twelve does not think Cory Twelve would be very good at the job the lab has assigned if Cory Twelve were reduced to scrap metal. Curry helps to rig up a lighter on a small extendable arm that Cory Twelve can manipulate independently, and Cory Twelve thanks them by setting fire to some kindling that Curry roasts marshmallows over. Cory Twelve can’t eat a marshmallow, but Cory Twelve can collect the data of what it tastes like from Curry, so that is what Cory Twelve does. And it is a good ritual.