Chapter Text
Advancing along the highway, he kept driving, glancing from time to time at his phone, which he was using as a map to the city.
The wind filtered in through the car’s lowered window, carelessly ruffling his false hair. A borrowed identity, woven for the mission. He knew that as soon as he crossed the city’s border, he would be watched, that some camera would catch him. He had no wish to reveal his true identity; after all, there was no need to take such a risk when one could simply forge such things.
Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into hours, and it had already been a couple of hours since he’d crossed paths with another vehicle, just the road and his own breathing. To break that deafening silence, he turned on the car radio. The sound, faint at first, became a warm presence, his only traveling companion, whose purpose was no more than to keep him awake… or distract him from the inner vertigo that had begun to stir.
According to the map, he was supposed to take the left exit off the highway. Along that stretch, the worn pavement sent light jolts through the car, while the presence of trees became predominant, transforming the surroundings into a green sanctuary. Bushes and thick trees crowded in; it was clear that Mother Earth had reclaimed these lands years ago. The signal here was weak the radio hissed with static, and his phone lost its internet connection.
"Great, this is just… great."
Now without a signal, his phone’s app became useless. Still, he wasn’t far from the city and would likely find a spot to reconnect. His top priority remained the mission: move with subtlety, find a safe shelter where he could set up his gear, silently trace the target’s perimeter, watch from just the right distance, send the report, and disappear. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Well… that would have been the plan, if not for the sudden murmur that began to rise from the car’s engine. The young man knew he would have to check it quickly to avoid further damage to the machinery. So Tim looked through the front windshield; the horizon still promised only more road, no sign of civilization. A glance in the rearview mirror showed no one behind him. He steered the car off the road to a clear patch, free of plants, to take a look at his vehicle.
"Okay… just figure out how to fix this. If the engine fails, you’ll be stranded, with no one around to help," Tim thought. He didn’t even want to imagine how long it would take to reach safety on foot. Meanwhile, the poor machine was coughing like a sick man. Without thinking twice, he pressed the brake pedal… it didn’t work.
"All right… fine," Tim reassured himself. His mind turned to the second option the handbrake, used for emergencies. And this was an emergency. Without hesitation, he yanked it back. This should have forced the wheels to stop spinning.
...
... ...
... ... ... It didn’t work.
Now it wasn’t just the engine coughing; another high-pitched noise struck his eardrum. The screech was coming from the radio. He tried to switch it off, but it stayed on. He pressed the volume button; it had no effect. It acted as if it had a will of its own, sliding up and down the frequencies, probing the air like an insect trapped inside the dashboard.
Then, just like the radio, his phone decided to join the uproar. No… it wasn’t just his phone: every electronic device he carried synced with the engine, and the wail became a sharpened howl, a thread weaving his nerves together with the vibrations of the chassis. The numbers on the control panel began to drip, as if their glow were melting; the phone’s signal bars swelled and shrank out of sync, breathing. A single high-pitched tone became two, then three, until a swarm buzzed behind his eyes.
With uncoordinated speeds, everything slipped out of his control, including the car, which jerked and jolted like a blind horse. The speedometer spun beyond its limit and, for an instant, seemed to turn backward, tracing impossible circles. The earth yes, the earth pulsed. It wasn’t the car that was compressing and decompressing, but the ground itself, as though he were riding an elastic band that someone kept snapping. The heater whispered voiceless phrases. The GPS, though switched off, murmured an altitude that matched no nearby location. The air vents exhaled a cold breath smelling of wet metal, and the radio, between bursts of static, began to drag out syllables he didn’t recognize, as though speaking a forgotten language.
Press. Press. Press. His fingers obeyed, but the buttons sank too far, as if the console were a soft tongue. Yet the sounds only multiplied: a chorus of static bursting around him. In the rearview mirror, for a split second, there was no road, only an eternal darkness marked by a flaming path. It flickered, he returned to the path but was instead of the sun it was light of the moon in the night that embrace his returned. The seatbelt tightened around him like an anxious arm, and the steering wheel throbbed with a pulse that wasn’t his own.
The volume rose and fell, the speed only climbed. The cabin began to shrink, or perhaps his breathing was growing too large, filling every gap, muffling the doors. Each pothole opened like a mouth; each curve stretched longer than possible. And when he could no longer tell if the scream came from the radio, the engine, or his own chest, it all merged into one endless, sustained, high note… beneath which the vehicle, deaf to its driver’s pleas, only kept accelerating.
The red *ON AIR* sign flickered above the thick window of the booth. The air, dense and warm, was laced with tobacco smoke and the unmistakable metallic scent of heated equipment. A low, almost subterranean hum vibrated through the soundproof walls, its source the gear used for recording and audio editing. Inside the studio, three people were present: Billy, who stood in the soundproof room ready to record, and the operator with the station’s owner watching from the other side.
With a thumbs up already given, the boy took a deep breath, ready to deliver the morning news.
"Good mooorning! As always, this is Whiiiiz Kiiid, live and direct from Radio Whiz—your heartbeat that never stops beating!" exclaimed the boy into the microphone. Preparing to start his daily routine, he licked his lips, took a sip from his mug of hot milk, inhaled as much air as his lungs could hold in this line of work, and cried out again.
"Now listen up, folks, because I’ve got a sparkling bit of news—the kind that makes you blink twice and think, ‘Did that really happen?!’"
"Last night, right at the entrance to our beloved city, a car without plates was found... and I don’t mean a simple parking slip-up, I’m talking about a car reduced to shreds! Pulverized, scorched, and practically hugging our very own welcome sign. Yes, yes, you heard me right. the pillar came down on it, as if the flames hadn’t already turned the thing into a fossil."
"But here’s the juicy part, word from our sleepless experts is that the car was already on fire before it slammed into the post! I mean, picture it: the driver, cool as a cucumber, steering through the night in a rolling fireball… like one of those daredevil stunts you only see in the movies. Or now this is just between us maybe it wasn’t a stunt at all. Maybe… it was something else."
"For now, officers have testified that not a single clue about the owner was found. Nothing. Zero. No papers, no cap. The poor car was simply abandoned… and every potential lead is already destroyed."
"So, dear driver: if you’re out there, if this message finds your ears and you’re still more or less in one piece or slightly roasted run to the nearest hospital; we’ve got bandages with your name on them! And if you’ve still got strength, drop by the police station we’re dying to know how you managed to take down our city’s official greeting."
"This has been Radio Whiiiiz your morning dose of mystery and megaphone! Don’t change that dial, because here, the news walks by in a cape and hat!"
"And cut!" The voice of Sterling Morris sliced through the room, deep and authoritative, breaking the silence at his end.
Whitey Murphy, hunched over the console, made a small gesture with his fingers toward the machine. Nodding, he let a new music track roll. The waves of sound drifted through the air, their shapes illustrated on the equipment’s display.
Morris pushed open the soundproof door—a muted, contained thump releasing with the unexpected motion. Crossing the threshold, the temperature dropped just slightly; the booth was cooler, more intimate. There was Billy, lit by a side lamp that cast a determined profile across his young face.
"Billy, my boy, I need you to investigate this case for your next report," Morris said, handing him some documents. The paper, warm yet rough to the touch, bore the city’s police crest: the blue dove. On its back were small capsules once used to carry messages, still damp in spots with fresh ink, and somehow heavier than its weight should allow.
Billy flipped through them, the sound of the pages amplified in the hush of the booth.
"Sir… this is signed by the Police Department," he murmured, his voice almost swallowed.
"That’s right. They want us to collaborate on a report about missing children. More eyes on the city, fewer chances of more abductions. These are the parents who’ve filed reports." Morris lit a cigarette, the dense smoke mingling with the smell of heated gear and magnetic tape. "Poor kids…" he muttered, his eyes glassy as they drifted aside for a few seconds.
The smoke drew lazy spirals that climbed toward the ceiling. Whitey stood abruptly and stopped Billy before he could leave.
"Boss…" he whispered, the tension visible even under the dim light. "I can’t let you send him alone. Not if it’s kids who are disappearing."
He extended his arm, hand pointing at Billy with the firmness of someone warning of imminent danger. To him, the boy was clearly part of the high-risk group in this case.
“It’s fine. He knows our deal, knows what to do, he’s been working here longer than you. Remember that.”
Whitey froze for a moment, then stopped worrying about whether the young reporter was hearing every word he was about to say. His voice hardened, rising with the weight of indignation. “Do I need to spell it out for you? You’re sending a kid! What is him to this case? a bait? At least when I asked for his help, I was there, by his side. Always. And you’re sending him alone?”
At that, Morris crouched to be at Billy’s eye level. The boy shifted uncomfortably; his face was tense, lips pressed into a thin line. The old man’s fists tightened, as if holding back the urge to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
"Billy, I need you to be completely honest with me… do you know what to do if someone suspicious approaches you?"
"Yes, sir. Zap them with my taser and run screaming."
"Good. And do you want someone to go with you?"
"NO!" Billy blurted out too quickly. His ears flushed bright red. "I mean… it won’t be necessary. These are just interviews. Besides, there’s Captain Marvel and Junior, they’re superheroes, it’s their job to protect us. No one else needs to."
"Exactly, kid," Starling nodded, now fixing his gaze on Whitey. "These are interviews with victims, I’m not sending you to chase the abductor…" A groan slipped from him as he stood, his knees could bear no more time crouched.
"He won’t be defenseless. He’ll carry his radio gear; he can contact someone if there’s danger." He turned to Billy, his voice hardening. "This report is so you learn what to avoid, what signs to recognize. There’s danger out there, and I want you to spot it before it reaches you."
He looked back at Whitey "Mr. Murphy you know how vital this is. I don’t want him running toward danger; I want him to recognize it… and tell it. That’s what radio is for: to open the world’s eyes."
Morris exhaled, a gray cloud curling under the lights.
Whitey stepped aside, letting down his own guard, and allowed the boy to pass. He still didn’t like sending him alone; the anger ebbed, leaving behind a bitter confusion.
"Billy’s a good kid… he was the one who helped me most when I needed it," the operator murmured. It was frustrating: when he had a problem, that boy offered him a hand and listened. And now, when Billy could help others with his voice, an uneasy knot twisted in his gut. the same feeling he’d had, and refused to acknowledge, when working with Batson.
"It’s not my place to tell you this, but I think it’s necessary for the work environment… You didn’t know Billy before he worked here, did you?" Morris drew on his cigarette; the ember was nearly spent. A shame.
"You see… when I met him, he was desperate, underfed, his clothes in tatters. But in his eyes, there was a spark… an unbreakable force. He didn’t ask me for spare change, didn’t tell me his sad story life, he just asked for a job. Can you believe that?" A bitter smile curved on the radio owner’s lips as he recalled the moment.
"That’s why I hired him: because he needs this… needs to talk to people who’ve also been through hard times. So even if he doesn’t want to speak of his past, he’ll know, he’s never been alone."