Chapter Text
1+ - Jared Kincaid
As he cleaned his guns, Jared absently listened to the vintage Zenith radio on his nightstand. It piped out the broadcaster's deep, melodious voice through cloth speakers, before fading out into the quick beats, and low smoky melody of the day's weather.
Jared had had this model of radio since it was considered new, back in the 1930s. He probably would've gotten rid of it years ago, as modern technology had long since outpaced it but it had been spelled so that he could listen to Night Vale's Community Radio no matter where he was in the world. He wasn't the type of man to be sentimental; he'd simply gotten used to keeping up and keeping a wary ear open for the latest news from his hometown through the radio broadcast. Although the reminder of home didn't make him homesick, per say, it did make him wistful for the ancient rituals of home: invisible pie, Dot Day, enjoying a day with a sky that was coal black with hints of indigo, the eternally twinkling lights and chanting over the family heirloom bloodstone circle.
He both loathed and missed those special, dangerous memories of home rituals that he'd never found anywhere else, only in Night Vale.
He'd only been back a handful of times (since he'd left for the blatantly menacing, dictatorship run by Drakul several hundred years ago), and he hadn't been back at all since he'd been told by the (newly established at the time) City Council that his primary job would be to watch the Archive.
He was to both protect the Archive and keep an eye on her for the safety of the rest of the world (but especially for the City Council). Librarians were bad enough with their monstrous appetites and their insistence on Summer Reading programs (he'd nearly lost a hand once when he'd been late returning a book, but he was deadlier than any lone librarian). The Archive was not only the equivalent of the largest and most extensive library in the world, but she also had sentience. Not that Ivy going insane and setting out to devour the world in blood-crazed madness wouldn't be understandable, considering her history and the incredible pressure on her young, fragile shoulders. Yet Kincaid dreaded the possibility of it happening because it was his Council-appointed job to take her down. Quickly, before the City Council was forced to intervene.
Once, Jared had thought he would be able to do it. Just take down the Archive without hesitation. Now... if given a choice between Ivy and the rest of the world, Jared thought the world would lose.
He put those disturbing thoughts aside (it was pointless to dwell on something that had yet to come to pass) and focused on the radio as the weather segment's last notes faded away to Cecil. The broadcaster's voice was soothing and familiar to his ear.
“The City Council has a new edict for Night Vale residents. They order that no one is to mention or think, write or chant in their bloodstone circle the name Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden.”
Jared choked on empty air. He coughed desperately as he turned incredulous eyes to the radio.
“When they called the station the Council said: 'There is no such person by that name. He is a rumor, a vicious, cruel rumor created by our enemies, in order to scare us into hiding under our bed. Which we don't do because we don't sleep or own a bed. Neither do we cower and whimper at the name Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Starborn are not real, starborn are not real, starborn are not reeeeeaaaallllll' the Council wailed, before the phone shattered, turned to dust and blew away.”
Jared stared at the radio, his thoughts spinning in a whole new direction. What in the eternal void was a starborn? Suddenly certain that this was something that Ivy needed to know about, or would at least be able to explain, Jared grabbed the closest assembled gun and went hunting for his cellphone, only to realize he must have left it in his coat. He growled and left his bedroom, not bothering to turn the radio off.
Cecil continued speaking to an empty room, “In apparently unrelated news, anyone in the town, whether they be resident or visitor, with Harry, Blackstone, Copperfield or Dresden as part of their name is to report to City Hall for a newly assigned name, dermal resurfacing and facial branding. The deadline is in four hours, and anyone who doesn't comply will be held in indefinite detainment at the abandoned mine shaft outside of town by the Sheriff's Secret Police. Also taken into custody will be your closest loved one, and your closest loved one's most hated enemy.
Now, stay tuned for a three hour and thirty-three minute special of dentist drills against various surfaces, brought to you by the Brighter Future Society. You know their popular motto: if the future isn't so bright that it leaves you partially blind and with painful second-degree burns all over your body it isn't a future worth having.
A sentiment I'm sure we can all embrace, listeners. As this broadcast comes to its inevitable, nightly end, I want you to close your eyes. Feel the delicate texture of the air and the weight of grasping gravity against your limbs. Just wallow in the sensations of your slowly decaying meat, and marvel that it yet allows you to experience all the wonder and horror that is life, that is living, that is the present.
For now.
Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”
End