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The first time Comfort Glover is remade, it is by their own hands.
They grow up in a sunny town on the outskirts of LA. Their teachers describe them as "shy", later "awkward", and in one particularly rude case, "socially inept", but say they have a "good heart", and they manage to make a few friends. Mostly, though, they stick to bugs. They like bugs. Ladybugs, beetles, even spiders--bugs are nice. They're small and quiet and often overlooked, but they make important contributions. They help people. That's really nice.
Comfort names themself Comfort because it's what their mother always called them--her little comfort. They always loved that. It's what they want to be, someone comforting. Or an entomologist.
Unfortunately, there aren't many job openings for amateur entomology in their part of LA, and venturing into the rest of LA is expensive. When Comfort remakes themself the first time, they expect somehow that it will change who they are in more than name and the appearance they put out to the world, but it doesn't. They're still shy, and awkwardly kind, and only really talkative when it's about bugs, and they don't have much to offer beyond that.
Or so they think, until they're told that they have nice hands, and apparently "glove testing" is a job you can have, so they do that--just to tide them over for now. It's not interesting, but it's quiet, and makes them enough money to get by.
After only a few months of this, they're told to wear a hat and go ask about sponsorship. They do so--one of their other talents, in addition to bugs, being nice, and having hands, is following orders. They sign a form.
It's the wrong form. They're given their Tacos uniform the next day.
They brush up on Blaseball in a haze of panicked Wlikipedia-diving in the first 4 days of the season, and somehow win their first game.
It becomes quickly apparent that that was a fluke.
The second time Wyatt Mason is remade, it is not by their choice at all.
Things have been bad all season. Incinerations have increased--the Tacos lost Natha, a fellow pitcher. People are eating peanuts--Comfort was on the mound when Eduardo Ingram of the Breath Mints suddenly tumbled to the ground, wings splayed, and again when Wyatt Mason--
Wyatt Mason--
Things have been worse since the Grand Unslam, all blurry games and pixelated fire, but when elections hit the badness multiplied by exponents and got infinitely worse and now they're Wyatt Mason. They're all Wyatt Mason. Wyatt Mason is questioning everything and Wyatt Mason is meditating and Wyatt Mason is repenting and Wyatt Mason is spinning and Wyatt Mason is Wyatt Mason is Wyatt Mason is in 14 places at once and none of them are good and it all hurts.
Wyatt Mason curls their metaphorical self up tight and tries to remember, to grab who they were before they were Wyatt Mason and hold on tight, but everything but the most basic of facts is slipping away from them and into the chaos-noise.
They like--they like lattes. They know that. Lattes, the smell of coffee, the feel of a cup in their hands, the feeling of having hands, the warmth--
Something reaches within them, pierces through them, grabs what's inside them and tears it out and they scream, louder then they've ever screamed, feeling pieces of them morph and tear away like playdoh in child hands.
Concentrate, they tell themself as their self struggles to knit back together. Focus. Something--anything--blood type? Blood type should be easy, they should know that, but they can't. It's just blood, right? Simple, basic--
Again the something plunges through them, grabs at them, tears them apart, still not good enough not good enough, and they spare a moment to be grateful for their current lack of physical realness because if they had any sort of stomach right now they'd probably throw up.
The pain dies down into the "usual" background amount of pain, and Wyatt Mason is able to halfway think again. A few of the other Wyatt Masons, they realize, are gone now. They can't feel them any more. They don't know if that means they're gone or just that they're not Wyatt Mason anymore. Either way, they hope it happens to them too.
Please, they thinksay into the noise surrounding them. Please let me go, let it be over. I--I want to go home, I need to go home. My bugs--
Their bugs. Their bugs! They've been collecting pet beetles and they made this great little terrarium and if they're not there to feed them no one's going to feed them and then they might start eating each other or something!
The stabbing tearing apart feeling comes for the third time, and even though it feels like whatever is doing this is trying to scrape every last bit of them away, Wyatt Mason holds themself still and thinks of their bugs. They will get through this, they have to get through this, they have to so they can go home and feed their bugs.
And then they fall apart and shatter into nothingness and everything finally stops.
LOCALIZING: GLOVER, COMFORT
FREQUENCY: 🔁992.20♥️
Wyatt Glover wakes up anew, and they feel numb.
The third time Wyatt Glover is remade, it is by a friend.
Everything's been loud for a while. They drift through Season 4 in a haze; barely even aware of where their hands are, much less how to use them. The Feedback is constantly wailing overhead, sounding like the screams of a missing friend.
They don't win a single game they pitch that season. They don't think so, anyway. Some of their memories of Season 4 aren't there at all, fuzzed out and glazed over and filled with the sound of crashing waves.
They can't stand being called Wyatt. Glover isn't much better. The universe won't let them be called Comfort anymore. They settle for Glove (rhymes with Clove).
Season 5 is a tiny bit better. Reverb's been added to the Feedback, echoing white noise waves. Glove finds them...more soothing than Feedback, at least. They manage to win a few games, even. Only 3, but at least it's not none.
A game goes long in Reverb, Day 82. Glove nearly falls asleep in the dugout, listening to the sounds of the waves.
They wake up when one of the waves slams directly into them and they tumble over, falling for a minute through that blurry unspace where they feel like they were before—
And then they crash back down in the dugout, a bat at their side. Everyone else is still there, and they all look okay—a little bruised, maybe, but alright.
When they find out what it means, that everyone’s been shuffled around and Glove's the first batter now, Glove starts to laugh. They haven't laughed in so long that their friends exchange concerned looks. McDowell pats them on the back as if he's concerned they might be choking.
On Day 80, when they had been scheduled to pitch, Glove steps up to bat with the waves crashing around them, hits a foul, lets a ball fly past, and then slams a Triple into the air and runs. They score a few minutes later.
It's good. They're good. They feel good, anyway. But the LA(i) is still filled with bad memories and headaches.
On Day 98, the sky is full of pink-tinted thunderclouds. As usual, it gives Glove a headache, and as usual, it sounds like there's words in the static, if they listen hard enough.
This day, they want to listen.
They swing absentmindedly at the first ball, and then they concentrate, trying to pick out recognizable patterns in the noise overhead.
So close. So close--
Their arms start to prickle, and they swing again just in time to strike out.
Their teammates are concerned about them. Glove tells them it's nothing. They hit a Double immediately at their next at-bat, and wave to their friends from second base, calling "See? I'm okay!"
And they are. But the game goes on--into extra innings--and the Feedback only gets louder. They feel fuzzy. The way they did in Season 4. The way they have since Season 4.
They're ready for a change.
They step up. Watch a Foul Ball go flying away.
As the next pitch comes in, their vision goes fuzzy. The noise sharpens. They can hear words in it, now.
can you hear me?
"Loud and clear, Wyatt," Wyatt Glover whispers, and the lightning strikes.
For a split second, Glove feels every cell in their body. Feels them all bright and shining, feels them snap apart and then click back together. They snap back into place. Their eyes snap open. They're breathing hard, and everything smells of ozone. They look down, and their jersey is Magic-red.
Wyatt Glover turns to their wide-eyed new teammates, smiles shyly, and waves a hand. "Hi."
Things are awkward at first, considering the whole "replaced one of your friends" thing, and also the "Glove just being generally awkward" thing, but they get better. Lots better, actually. Season 7 is a little scary, what with Annie being beaned twice ("Must be revenge for all the blood I drank", she jokes weakly), not to mention Oscar, and two allergic reactions, and the incinerations they see (Yazmin, Frasier, Workman) and the instability chains (Curry, Inky), and Harrell leaving them for the Fridays (she's right before Glove in the lineup, it scares them more then they'd like to admit), but they all pull through okay.
Glove, personally, is better than okay. They love Yellowstone, the sprawling trails and sparkling pools and wildlife and even the strangenesses, which remind them of their old home. And the bugs—they release their old collection before they leave, figuring that they’ll be better off in their natural habitat of LA(i), but immediately start a new, even better collection in Yellowstone. They pick up a new nickname there, too—“Clover”, C + Glover. It’s good. It feels natural.
On the opening day of Season 9, Chorby drags Clover out to the top of one of Yellowstone’s hills and tells them to sit. Clover does so. After a few minutes of excited hopping, Chorby apparently decides that whatever they’re waiting for isn’t coming, and sits down to instead ask Clover about their new bug collection.
“And the weird little jewel beetle—haven’t figured out the species yet—is named Patel, and the stickbug is Alejandro,” Glove is explaining, when suddenly Chorby pulls on their arm.
“Look!” she shouts. “Sorry to interrupt, but—look!”
They look up, and they see a line of monarch butterflies, tracing across the sky, making their yearly migration up north.
“Wow,” Wyatt “Comfort” “Glove” “Clover” Glover sighs, and they feel, for a time, truly happy.
The fourth time Wyatt Glover is remade, it is by the gods.
Technically, it's a three-step process.
Step 1: Take a normal breath in during a Peanuts game and inhale a Peanut instead. Choke. Collapse. Feel as if their bones are liquefying. Lie dizzy on the ground until their teammates help them up.
Step 2: Sit with their teammates for the Season 9 elections, somewhat recovered but still weak and shaky and barely capable of swinging a bat, much less holding one. Watch the Decrees come in. Join in the outburst of concerned murmurs when the Forecasts come out. Solar Eclipse, Blooddrain...Birds is the only one that doesn't seem concerning.
Try to speak. Gasp. Double over as the Decree takes effect.
(It's...hot is what they register first. Like a sunburn, or being too aware suddenly of your blood, a pulse of warmth under the skin. But it doesn't feel bad, is the second thing. It feels...powerful.)
Step 3: Watch the Blessings come in.
The Magic only win one.
Credit to the Team.
The worst player on your team...
All eyes turn to Clover. They shrink under the knowledge.
will earn 5x payouts for Idol pendants.
A golden pattern, the approximate shape of a necklace, traces itself on Clover's skin. They sink further under the weight.
There is a long silence as Glove shakes and struggles not to cry, all traces of the power from earlier gone.
"Is this some kind of joke?" they manage to get out after a few minutes. "I'm not--I'm the worst. They just said that. You all just--just heard that. How come they'd--"
Chorby ribbits indignantly. "Don't say that! You're not the worst!"
"Well, by stats," Eizabeth begins, but hesitates when Chorby glares at her. "I mean, yeah. You're not a bad person."
"Can I hug you?" Curry (human) asks. Clover, without looking at them, nods, and they do so. "I think it's a good mod, personally. I mean, maybe it's not--I mean. You're going to be helping people, if you think about it."
"Yeah!" Chorby says. She pokes Glove lightly in the arm, and they look up at her. She's doing that thing where she makes sparkles appear from nowhere again. "Listen to me, Clover! You are a credit to the team. Our team. You're nice, and smart, a-and you catch me lots of flies, and you're really good at trail cleaning and picking up logs and, uh, my point is...you deserve this! You are good, and you're gonna SHOW EVERYONE!" Her sparkles multiply exponentially on these last few words, making Clover wince slightly.
She's right, though. They are good. Not too good. But enough.
It starts on Day 5 of the next season. They're in Kansas City, and off to a great start as they recover from their Shame, but it's a Solar Eclipse above and Glove strikes out looking in their first at-bat.
The Mints bring it up to 2-1 in the next inning. Washer hits a ground out, and Sutton's up next.
And then
And then and then and then and then and then
The Umpire is rearing up behind them and its eyes are glowing molten red behind the mask and not Sutton not Sutton not them please and someone’s screaming and Glover is moving faster then they thought they could, pulled by some force they can’t even understand and don’t have the time to, Scrap Blankenship Eduardo Stevenson Richardson Yazmin Frasier Workman please I can’t see another person die not them please, and they realize it's them screaming just as the Umpire turns to them.
And then they're on fire.
They have one moment of silent, burning peace to think at least it's not any of my friends and then they open their mouth and swallow the fire.
The pendulum swings the other way and the adrenaline is back and everything's burning burning burning hot hot hot molten lava inside their veins and they're runningrunningrunning back to grab their bat they want to bat they want to go up there but their friends won't let them they try and hold them back but they're too hot to touch and then they're racing around the field trying to catch the balls but failing because they're too fastfastfast everywhere and not looking and it's starting to hurt but there's still a whole inning to get through and their friends are looking at them almost afraid and the fire the fire the fire it's filling them up it's filling up all the empty parts in them and their fingerprints are searing into their bat and the pitch is flying in slow motion and they hit it
and it's gone
and they're gone
they've flown around the bases before they know it and then they collapse, coughing smoke.
They're dizzy and weak for the rest of the game, throat scratchy and aching, swaying back and forth clutching their bat and staring blankly ahead as they strike out, but they feel amazing. They did it. They helped. They saved someone. Maybe they are a credit to the team, after all.
(They won’t be fast enough to save Annie and Roland, later that season. Or Sutton, when seasons later the Umpires turn to them again. But for now, Sutton is alive, and Wyatt Glover hugs them after the game and if they cry later, the bugs are the only ones who know.)
The fifth time Wyatt Glover is remade, it is long and slow and painful.
It starts out innocuous, as these things often do. Season 13 is rough, at first--the guilt of first Sutton and then Hotbox dying when they could have saved them (they could have, they know they could have) is hard, but 6 days Elsewhere do a surprising amount to numb the grief, and eating fire twice in one game helps them get a little confidence back. By the end of the season, they're feeling pretty good.
On Day 97, they Party. On Day 98, they eat fire--the Umpire comes for them, specifically, while they're at bat, and they're feeling brave enough to actually smile at it as they brace for the flame--and so when at the end of Day 99 their name is spoken and a set of gold laurel leaves manifest in their hair, it feels only natural. Not even being Shadowed brings them down--it's a chance for them to relax, and also to work on improving, being even better when they come back out.
And come back out they do, only to be met with bad news. Necromancy. Two of them. York Silk on the Crabs, Chorby Soul on the Garages. Clover nods their head and tries to prepare.
They’re not prepared. Their very first series is against the Crabs. Clover tries not to shiver too visibly when they see York Silk, still looking half-dead. They were trying to keep hope alive that maybe being a batter meant you couldn’t hit people the way necromanced pitchers can, but York hits every ball like he’s aiming to kill. He doesn’t do anything in that game, but the very next day, well.
It’s a walk. And then a hit. And then another hit, with a flash in his eye, a flyout if someone can catch it, and just like they’ve done before Clover is runningrunningrunning so if anything happens it’s them and not their team, and they catch the ball.
It lands heavy in their hand, so heavy they fall to the ground, flinching in pain as they feel the shock go up their arm, and then abruptly they are Aware.
Of what they’re not sure, but they Know it. Something is watching them, they think. Eyes are on them. They’re a Super Idol, they should be used to it, but it feels different this time.
When York’s at bat next, he hits a ground out. Clover catches it again. When they’re at bat next, they just stand there, shivering slightly, hit one foul ball but and strike out. There are eyes on them, the feeling is getting worse with each passing second. It feels a bit like being Magmatic, except cold—they’re hyperaware of everything. Especially York.
York hits another ground out, and Clover catches it. Nagomi McDaniel hits a flyout, and they catch that too. He hits a flyout and they catch it, making direct eye contact with him as they do. They think he looks angry. They know they do.
Chorby hits a ground out to York to end the game.
People ask Glove, afterwards, if they’re okay. They nod and wave them off and go home and struggle to sleep, that feeling of something watching them still haunting them.
The next day is coffee. The feeling is worse. Glover feels—deeply and irrevocably—that this will be the last time they see their friends, somehow. They don’t tell their friends this. They don’t want them to worry. They wish, in a bizarre way, that they could be there to comfort them after they’re gone.
They stand there, and they hit endless Foul Balls and wish almost that they could be stuck forever like Chorby, just so that they don’t have to go. Coffee pours over them, citrus and walnut and endlessly dark, and they feel themself start to dissolve at the edges.
They hit a Single. Bevan hits a Double and they score. They Refill the In. It’s their last good deed, the last thing they can do to help.
The rest of the game passes in a coffee-scented blur. At least York doesn’t hit anyone else.
At the end of it all, Wyatt Glover is standing there at bat, and they swing, and they swing, and then they hold themself still and take a breath in (Ball) and let it out (strikes out looking), and they’re gone.
they’re gone.
███████ █████
They spend what feels like forever in an empty, unending darkness. Maybe something else happens, but they don't remember any of it. Just a darkness, and an ache, and the smell of coffee, and then stumbling out on shaky not-quite-formed legs to a world too much too fast. Home base glows like a star in front of them, but before they can make it there someone hits their arm and they flinch, shocked to discover they even have an arm, and dissolve.
Then it's darkness and emptiness and hurt again, but this time they're determined. When they step out again, it is still too much too fast, and they have to hide back in the darkness for a moment, but the emptiness inside them wants to be filled and whatever can fill it must be out there, so they pull themself out again.
They try one last time, legs still shaky and everything still blurry around them. They step out and move slowly but deliberately forward, each step an effort but a worthwhile one, eyes fixed on that glowing home base.
They reach it, collapse upon it, and the Shadows take them in.
The Shadows are…fine. They wake up in Mexico City somewhere near the end of Season 16, but they don’t ever feel like they’ve properly woken up. The first time they manage to speak, they ask after their former team.
They can’t even feel grief when they’re told that many of them were Redacted too, just the same dull numbness that seems to be all that’s left in them.
“How do you feel?” Pangolin Ruiz asks them, once it seems like they’re capable of speech. They answer “Hollow.”
They end up spending time with Kennedy Meh and Matteo Cash, mostly. Kennedy doesn’t ask them to have energy or talk that much, and he’s a Fire Eater too, even if he’s never once used it. Wyatt Glover knows that that’s something that’s true of them too, and it makes them feel a sort of kinship to him. Matteo finds them shiny bugs to hold, and while they still don’t feel any way in particular they do know on some level that they like bugs, and that this is kind.
Still, the approximately 3 seasons they spend in the Shadows are mostly spent dully. They almost forget that they ever shown.
At the end of Season 19, they remember. The laurel leaves on their head metamorphosis into a full wreath, wrapping all the way around their head, and gold trickles into the empty spaces inside them. It’s not the same as it was, but it’s something. Glover starts practicing again, working on swinging their bat and running bases. They remember, though they can’t quite feel, that they are a person who wants to be helpful, above almost all else.
At the end of the next season, they are rewarded for their effort by more gold. It’s dusted on their hands now in the right light (not that there’s much light down here) and they’re starting to feel again. Mostly, they feel want. They want to be not hollow anymore, but mostly, they want to be out of here. They want to be playing again—and, deep down, where the remnants of their truest self cling on stubbornly, they want to see their friends again.
One of these desires, at least, is filled. They are pulled out of the Shadows, and sent immediately home to Yellowstone.
It looks different. Many of their friends are missing. They’re missing—some of them, anyway. But they’re home, and they’re in the light, and they start to feel…better.
They think it’s better, anyway.
On their fourth day in the light, the skies rain down glitter and they gain what they're told is a Fire Eating Ring of Fortitude, and they laugh so hard they struggle to breathe.
40 days later, they're in the outfield when an umpire's eyes start to glow. Glover remembers, distantly, how they used to run when they saw that, panic gripping their chest. That seems unnecessary now. They step slowly and deliberately in its path, and raise their head to meet the umpire's gaze.
The fire crackles within them. It is soft and bright and burning and filling, shining and melting away the gold in them. For a few brilliant moments, the fire is filling the emptiness in them, revitalizing. They are whole again.
And then they hit the ball, and they're gone.
They don't even win the game.
Someone shoves a cup of something into their hands and tells them to drink up, it's a gift. They do so. It tastes like walnut and citrus. It's gone in 5 sips. It's...filling, but wrong. Like trying to shove a square into the circle in that shape game for kids. Still, they say thank you, and they feel almost better.
There is still emptiness inside them, and the gold hungers for it. They are elevated again at the end of the season. They feel their world flip upside-down and watch James Mora vanish and know it won't be enough to save them.
Their final season passes in a blur. They're pitching again--it's been years. They're not much better, but they're having more fun. They must be, because they can't seem to stop smiling. They steal a pair of socks that wrap their hands in pink bandages and make their feet feel glued to the ground. They don't care. They aren't winning games and they don't care! They're an idol! They're loved! They're doing things right, for once! They're coated in gold and it's weighing them down! It aches just to move! They don't care!
The gold is beating in their veins. (They feel sick.) They feel wonderful. Their socks are gone, replaced with a necklace. It promises them that they will be great if they make it to the postseason. (They know distantly that they won't.) We just gotta make it to the postseason. Who was it who said that? (Someone important.) Not as important as them.
They're staring at themself in the mirror, clutching the sink. They're not sure what day it is. Their hair is long and tangled, and fades from brown to amber to gold. They lose another game and smile and grab a pair of scissors and slice their hair away. The gold falls to the ground around them. Their head feels no lighter. There is still a crown of gold gripping their skull. Gold is still layered above and under their skin, crushing them. They are floating.
They lose their last match in spectacular fashion—27.7 to 1.7. They laugh in glee and sit back to watch the last game, Day 99. It’s Feedback, and they don’t hear a thing.
The sixth and final time Wyatt Glover is remade, it is ███
"Speculation, Nucleosynthesis
A Bubble bursts
An Economy Collapses"
(oh no no no no whats happening whats happening it hurts it hurts oh gods)
███ █████ ███ █████ ████ ███████ ██████ ██ ██████, ████ gold.
"A Golden Glove."
(the gold is pressing against them and bursting out and tearing them to shreds again and again and again and they can't take it anymore, they can't, gods no, no, please)
everything fades to light.
"Wyatt Glover."
Wyatt Glover wakes up.
They open their eyes and everything is far too bright, gold glinting off gold, so they close their eyes again. Everything hurts.
After a few minutes, they decide they have to move at some point and it might as well be now, so they push themself slowly to a sitting position. It hurts, but they feel...lighter.
They open their eyes again. They adjust, slowly. They're sitting in front of a golden wall, polished so it's almost a mirror.
They can see themself again. They're surprised to know they look much the same, too-long limbs folded in awkward positions, sleepy eyes and short, messy hair.
They have wings now, though. Giant, golden things, feathery and unnatural. They feel a wave of revulsion hit them, and they reach for their shoulder blades, seized with an urge to get rid of them tear them off that's not me--
But the second their fingers touch feathers, they begin to morph and change. Glove puts their hand down and watches in awe as their wings melt away and reform as a set of four, oval-shaped and semi-translucent.
"Dragonfly wings," they breathe, and use the wall to push themself to standing. They twitch their arms, and their wings buzz in response. The halo over their head flickers like a failing neon sign.
"Wow," Clover whispers, mouth curling into a slight smile. They're in a nearly-empty golden room, with only a bed in the corner. It looks tempting, but--
"My bugs," they say aloud, shocked into speech. "I forgot them! I--oh no, I didn't feed them at all, they must have--"
They press their head into their hands to muffle their tears. It's not just the bugs--it's their friends, themself, they forgot everyone in the haze of Ego, they're horrible--
Something lands, lightly, on their finger.
Glove looks down.
"A butterfly."
The butterfly flutters its wings as if saying yes! that's me!
Glove lifts it up, looks at it closer. Hums thoughtfully. "It's really pretty, and, mm....oh, perfectly symmetrical wings. That's nice. But it doesn't have the right number of legs. It's supposed to have 6, in 3 pairs."
A few seconds pass, and then a second butterfly flies in. This one has the proper number of legs, and Clover smiles as it alights on their finger. "Excellent! But, the body...it's not quite segmented right."
They're not quite sure how this is happening, or why. And they still ache from the inside out, and maybe they'll nap for a day or two on that bed over there later. And maybe eventually they can leave this room and look for other people who this has happened to. (Pitching Machine. Chorby Soul. James. ...York.) But for now, Wyatt "Glove" "Clover" Glover is content to sit, and critique the Vault's latest bug designs, and be peaceful.