You are Thomas England.

You play for the Hawaiʻi Fridays.

One day, you are playing a game of Blaseball. You do that every day. It's no different from any other; in fact you've already played one game in this series against the Mints, and that went just fine.

And then it is different. And the last thing you remember is... yourself, bursting into flames. But at least it's quick.

You are Thomas England, a batter for the Hawaiʻi Fridays. You wake up with a strong sense of deja vu. You've been here before. And why do you smell like woodsmoke? Nobody else on the team ever smells it, but it won't go away. The days feel weird, like they're not even happening. The rest of the team agrees with that at least, but you're so much more convinced about the smell of smoke that they claim to not notice that it's hard to believe them.

It keeps following you. You don't even get used to it, somehow. And still nobody else on the team can smell it. Fletcher, sure, and you're not even sure if McBlase, Juice, or Combs could have functioning noses — but everyone? You ask everyone. Elijah, Winner, Heat, Mora, Dadley, Bean, Underbuck, York... not even the new recruit just in from the Tacos — Breadwinner — can smell it.

Just you.

And then you're not you anymore.

You are Sixpack Dogwalker, and you always have been.

You were right, the days weren't passing. When they start up again, it'd be a relief if you were still you. But... you're not.

You keep thinking stuff like that. And you have absolutely no clue why you would. You don't remember ever being any different? But... you don't feel like yourself. You dont feel like yourself, for that matter.

Something’s not right. Something has never been right for as long as —

You can only remember ever being you.

But that doesn’t make it better. You keep getting these flashes of — something else. Another... time. Another promise. Our Lady of Perpetual Friday is always mysteriously absent when you try to ask what —

...what she promised you.

That’s just her way... isn’t it?

It isn’t.

You don’t know how, but you seem to know her — to know everyone on the team much better than... you’re not sure what’s happening. You’ve always been Sixpack Dogwalker, haven’t you?

Nothing adds up.

Nobody on the team knows you very well. But you’ve known them your entire life. So how could they not know you?

One day, Heat asks you if you’re settlin’ into the team alright, and you say, it’s been alright, but... you mention that that’s been bothering you a bit.

Xe nudges you reassuringly and says, Aw, you should oughta get used to it soon. Ain’t been more’n a coupla days yet, since–

But hir face has already changed by the time xe stops talking. Confusion, or a blank stare. You hold onto the charred bone tighter as you think about it later.

It’s a longer bone — a femur, perhaps — and somewhat scorched and blackened. It shouldn’t be, you think, looking at it. I’m not dead.

No.

Of course you’re not dead. That’s... how could you be? But your femur still smolders away. There’s no scent of woodsmoke. It bothers you. Just another one of those things. Something that isn’t there, that should be.

                       who?