Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A single drop of rain falls from a cloudless sky. The parched soil drinks it greedily. The sky is hungry. The soil is drowning. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Big news today, Night Vale. Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, reports that last night, he apprehended a stranger, who, he says, stumbled in from the Sand Wastes 'like something out of a nightmare, you know, the one where a kind of ordinary-looking young woman stumbles in from the Sand Wastes sort of looking like she's been beaten up by a train, if trains could beat people up, which I'm not sure they can, but if they could, you'd imagine that someone who had been beaten up by a train would look . . . pretty much like this girl looks.'

The young woman, who, Larry tells us, either cannot or refuses to speak, was carrying a strange, white-bodied device whose rounded end glowed with blue light not unlike the lights seen above the Arby's on a nightly basis, which emitted a strange, but oddly comforting hum, and which the woman absolutely refused to let go of, to the point of physically assaulting Larry, reportedly by taking several of his firearms from him and beating him violently over the head with them. The Sheriff's Secret Police, who were watching the whole time―as they are watching all of us, all the time, diligently and sleeplessly, with sharp eyes and twitching ears―did not press the issue, as, they said, 'She looked pretty darn scary, hitting Larry over the head with his own assault rifle like that, I mean, who does that? Who hits people with their own guns? It's just not natural.'

The woman is now in custody at the Arby's, although, as Larry reports, she is less 'in custody' and more 'taking a nap in one of the booths, and we're all too scared of her to wake her up. Did you see what she did? I think my skull is broken. Please take me to a hospital. Is anyone even listening to me? I need medical attention. Oh god, so much blood. I'm pretty sure all this blood is supposed to be on the inside. Can anyone hear me? Hellooooo!'

As to the nature of the device she carries, Todd Fleming, who was having a roast beef sandwich at the Arby's―or, at least, what he was fairly certain was a roast beef sandwich―when the woman arrived, had no guesses, other than that 'it's probably come kind of weapon, you know, like, a laser rifle, or something? I'm pretty sure they have laser rifles, you know, out there.' Well, we certainly appreciate your insight, Todd, and look forward to future developments in this curious and riveting story.

It's that time of year again, citizens! The Night Vale Repressed Emotion and Freudian Psychology Fund is having their annual Anger Drive at Big Rico's Pizza! The location has changed this year due to the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, where the event has traditionally been held, being overrun with Night Vale militia members and the tiny invaders from the underground city beneath the pin return of Lane 5. A representative from the NVREFPF gave the following reasons for the change: 'It's just so hard to get good and angry with all that distraction going on around you. We want our test subjects―I mean, volunteers―to have the best experience possible.' As always, attendance is completely voluntary, and volunteering is mandatory. The city council has declared that any citizens caught not volunteering for the Anger Drive will be taken by the Sheriff's Secret Police to the abandoned mines outside of town, where they will await punishment in comfort and occasional torment.

The Dog Park, which you should not speak about, or even think about, is under renovations by the Hooded Figures this week―at least, we assume that the terrific banging, the clattering as of bones tumbling down an empty mountain slope in the middle of the night, the screeching as of an orchestra of steel cellos playing postmodern jazz, is due to construction. Citizens are reminded that even thinking about the Dog Park―which the city council reminds us does not exist―is considered a Thought Crime, and you will be sent to Thought Prison for even considering the possible existence of a Dog Park in Night Vale. I, fortunately, am speaking purely hypothetically, and am certain that, even if there were a Dog Park in Night Vale―which there is not―it would certainly not be any of my business. So, remember, citizens: there is. No. Dog Park. There are no renovations in the Dog Park, because the Dog Park does not exist. If you think you have seen a Dog Park, with nine-foot-high obsidian walls that shroud its misty interior from all but the most determined of scrutiny, where the Hooded Figures congregate on a regular basis and into which many of the citizens of Night Vale, including our own intern Dana, have previously vanished, you are only hallucinating, and you should probably stay at home, curled up in the fetal position underneath your bed, shrouded in the dubious protection of your blankets and self-doubt, until you feel better, and recall that there is no Dog Park, and there never has been, and there never will be. To think otherwise, dear citizens, is to invite calamity upon us all.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

You awaken, alone and in darkness. It takes a moment to remember that you are in your own bed, and not, as you thought at first, in some strange and sinister place. You wonder what it was that woke you―a nightmare, perhaps, or a noise from outside. But, as you roll over onto your other side and pull the blankets closer, sleep will not come to you. You are lying in bed, huddled beneath the covers, completely wide awake, your heart beating swiftly with a fear you cannot explain or qualify.

Minutes pass, minutes of silence and darkness, so deep and so thick you can scarcely hear your own heartbeat. You fear you may have gone blind and deaf in the night and are now eternally lost in the prison of your own body. But then, suddenly―! A sharp noise cuts through the silence, making shallow but precise incisions into the tissue of your consciousness. It is a knocking at your door. You know, without knowing how you know, that this is the sound that woke you. It is not urgent. It is not panicked or fearful, nor is it angry. It is simply . . . knocking. Yet still, the sound of it makes your blood run cold in your veins, and although you want nothing more than to stay safely hidden in your bed until this reality passes into nightmare, you somehow know that you cannot leave the door unanswered.

But you are afraid.

The night has lasted for hours, days. You have stayed motionless under your blankets scarcely daring to breathe while the knocking continues outside. It is no longer an occasional percussion, but now a constant assault of your door―the door to your bedroom, you have realized, but you live alone, and you know you locked all the doors.

At last, shaking and exhausted, you peel back the covers and slowly pry yourself from the bed―is that your silhouette, indented in the mattress? How long have you cowered there, alone and breathless? But you approach the door, your footsteps slow and hesitating, the knocking growing louder and louder until it is a frantic pounding that threatens to break down the door, a terrible drumming that could not be produced by mere human hands. There is blood seeping under the door and it is soaking your feet. Your walls have fallen away and you are surrounded only by the void, the only way out is through that bedroom door that is splintering under the onslaught from outside. You reach out, you put your hand on the knob, and the knocking . . . stops. Slowly, your heart in your throat, you open your bedroom door.

Pizza Hut. Make It Great.

More now on the woman from the Sand Wastes.

Listeners, I hate to tell you this, but that person―if, indeed, she can be called a person―is clearly Bad News. Carlos―my beautiful, sensitive, caring Carlos―upon hearing that someone had wandered into town out of the Sand Wastes, immediately set out to investigate and provide what support he could. When he arrived at the Arby's, the young woman―if that is what she is―had woken from her nap and had somehow communicated to the Sheriff's Secret Police that yes, she would like a roast beef sandwich, she was starving, and could you also get her a cup of water―no, not the meal, she didn't want to be a burden on anybody's wallet, just a sandwich and a water, please. Just as everyone was beginning to relax around her and it seemed like she might be a civil human being (after devouring her roast beef sandwich in a manner that was, according to the Secret Police, ravenous), Carlos came in and took charge of the situation. What a great guy! When nobody else knows what to do or even if there is anything to be done but cower, Carlos always turns up just in time to save the day.

But, dear listeners, this is where our story turns bizarre.

As soon as she caught sight of beautiful, perfect Carlos in his beautiful, immaculate lab coat, the woman dove for cover under the nearest table, holding her strange device at the ready and wearing an expression, Carlos told me, of intense hatred.

"It's all right!" Carlos exclaimed, his perfect hands raised in the air in a gesture of peace. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm a scientist."

At those words, which would have soothed the nerves of even the most intractable human being, the woman flew into a frenzy. She fired her strange weapon―for it does seem to be a weapon―at the ceiling above Carlos's beautiful head, and then beneath the next table over. And oh, listeners, wondrous and terrible to hear! The table fell straight down through the floor and came out of the ceiling, falling right on top of Carlos! Rest assured, listeners, he suffered only minor injuries, since he dove out of the way just in time, but the woman, it seems, took the opportunity to escape from the Arby's during that moment of confusion. The City Council has advised that she is probably extremely dangerous and should not be approached by anyone, ever, and we'll all just hope she gets bored with us and goes away back to wherever she came from.

Listeners, let me reiterate: this woman is clearly dangerous. Anyone who would attack beautiful, harmless Carlos is obviously either insane or pure evil. Hold on, what―? One moment, listeners.

(What's that? ...He's WHAT? ...Well, where did she go? ...No, no it's fine, I'll . . . take care of it.)

Uh, listeners, we've had a bit of an, um, emergency situation here. It seems that after the young woman ran away, Carlos, after calling me to tell me what happened, went after her. According to our sources, which are, really, Rafael the intern who was looking out the window at the time, they were both last seen heading in the direction of Carlos's lab! Listeners, I'm sure you'll agree with me that Carlos, perfect, wonderful Carlos, cannot be left to face this menace on his own. I'm going to go help him, and I pray that I will return to you in good time and good health. Ooh, I hope Carlos will be okay without me for a little while!

Meanwhile, I give you . . . the weather.

Well, citizens, I have good news and bad news.

The bad news is, I never made it to Carlos's lab. The good news is, that's because he called me to let me know what was going on―he was listening to the broadcast on the way back to his lab, so he knew I was heading that direction. Oh, sweet, brilliant Carlos! He told me, not in so many words, that the young woman had calmed down and he was in no danger. She still refuses to speak, but, Carlos said, after he offered her an explanation of where she was, who he was, and that she was in no danger (as well as a glass of water mixed with a mild sedative), she calmed down considerably, although she still refuses to let go of her strange, glowing weapon. Carlos has informed me that he thinks she has escaped from some laboratory, as he got a look at her shirt and the weapon, both of which were emblazoned with the slogan, "APERTURE LABORATORIES." He thinks this may explain her aversion to scientists, although, to this radio announcer at least, an aversion to scientists still seems ridiculous.

The woman is staying, for the moment, in Carlos's lab, and―ooh, listeners, I shouldn't tell you this, but I just can't resist―he's invited me to come over and talk to her after the broadcast! Can you imagine? Carlos, invited me, to come over to his house! I can hardly contain my excitement, listeners. And, of course, that means that for the next broadcast, I'll have insider information on the young woman from this 'Aperture' place.

Perhaps, listeners, this should be a lesson to us all. Things that seem frightening and dangerous at first, may turn out to only be confusing and dangerous. With patience and level-headedness, we can weather any storm in the company of our loved ones, holding them close in case they need to go out for supplies and, despite their promises that they will be right back, are never seen or heard from again. This young woman is a reminder that there are places beyond Night Vale, places where things are different, and infinitely more horrible and terrifying. Certainly, citizens, we should open our arms and our hearts to this newcomer, who came to us in her time of need from a place where, perhaps, not all scientists are as beautiful and perfect as Carlos. And for that, most definitely, we should pity her. This should be a reminder of how good we have it here, how precious our little community is to us, and how we should really put up a fence between here and the Sand Wastes. There's no telling what's out there, waiting to come in.

And so, listeners, with a heart full of hope for the future and a body that is a little too full of blood, I bid you . . . good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Chapter Text

Your nights are haunted by dreams that are too close to reality for comfort. You now can no longer even tell when you are awake and when you are sleeping Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Listeners, I . . . don't quite know where to begin. When I came into the studio this morning, there was an old notebook sitting on my desk with Carlos's name on it. When I asked Rafael, the intern, where it had come from, he said he found it in the Lost and Found. When I told him I didn't know we had a Lost and Found, he replied, "Oh, yeeeaaah, I, uh, found it in the break room. Most of the stuff in there looks really old, like, two or three years old, maybe, or more. I was looking through it because I lost my watch the other day. You remember. But I found this notebook and I figured, like, you could give it back to Carlos, or whatever."

I mentioned to Rafael that this notebook could not belong to my Carlos, because the date on it is from three years ago, long before Carlos ever came to Night Vale. Rafael suggested that maybe Carlos had brought it with him when he came here, and it just somehow got lost in the past year and a half and I really shouldn't be freaking out like this. I told Rafael, in no uncertain terms, calmly flipping the table over and throwing small and fragile objects across the room while screaming at the top of my lungs, calmly, that I wasn't 'freaking out' at all, that I was perfectly calm and in control of myself and my emotions. He let the matter drop after that.

I haven't opened the notebook, listeners―because, of course, that would be a breach of privacy. I mean, what if it's Carlos's diary? I couldn't just go looking through it to find out all of his innermost thoughts and feelings, including perhaps those first impressions he gleaned upon his arrival in Night Vale, his first perceptions of our little community and everyone in it, including but not limited to his initial thoughts about, well, me. . . .

...What if it's Carlos's diary.

But it's probably nothing. It's probably not even Carlos's. And it's almost certainly not his diary. Probably. Certainly, definitely, probably, improbably not.

Ahem. Well, Carlos, dear, I have your notebook here from three years ago, if you would like to come pick it up. Or, I can just bring it back with me tonight. You know, which ever. Just, shoot me an email, or text. Or something.

Are you tired of looking for satisfaction in your life? Well, stop. You won't find any, anyway, no matter how hard you look.

And now, for the Community Calendar.

Monday, there will be a sunrise, followed, approximately twelve hours later, by a sunset. It is advised that you take no notice of these events and carry on with your daily activities as though they are not happening. Remember, what you don't know, can't fill you with horror and dread.

Tuesday will happen twice. You will not remember the first time when the second time rolls around, but you will experience a vague sense of unease, slightly less severe than the feeling of deja-vu, as your subconscious wonders if you have changed anything since last time, and what effect, possibly devastating, it may have had. This feeling of unease will persist throughout the day, growing slightly stronger each time you make a decision, but ebbing when you are focused on other things, though never to the point of going away completely.

Wednesday is dollar-off day at Taco Bell! Bring in a taco wrapper containing at least one of your teeth or eyeballs for a dollar off your next taco purchase.

Thursday is sleeping. No. Thursday is dead.

Friday is Night Vale Bring Your Child to Work Day! Sponsored by StrexCorp. StrexCorp. We're looking for your children. Bring us your children. We are only interested in their well-being. You do not want to know what the penalties are for hiding your children from us. What do you need children for, anyway? Shouldn't you be looking after yourself?

Saturday will be uneventful. Or, possibly, extremely eventful. It depends mainly on what you define as, 'an event.'

Sunday has been cancelled. All events previously assigned to Sunday have been redistributed throughout the week. Consult your local shaman for more information.

Listeners, you remember that young woman who wandered in from the Sand Wastes a couple of weeks ago, right? Well, she's been staying in Carlos's lab, and, I have to say, I've . . . actually kind of started to like her. She still hasn't spoken, and she still won't let that device out of her sight, but she hasn't attacked Carlos again and having her around is kind of . . . nice, actually. She's very quiet, she doesn't cause a lot of trouble, and, it turns out, she's really good at puzzles! She's been helping Carlos out around the lab a little bit, recently, which is nice, because it means he spends less time in the lab trying to organize things. Whew! What a chore that must be, especially with Random Object Rearrangement month going on.

Oh, by the way, listeners. . . . This month is Random Object Rearrangement Month! Probably should have mentioned that earlier. I swear I had a note about that in my stack. Sorry about that.

Anyway, the young woman. She drew us a map of where she came from, and, apparently, it's only a few miles out in the Sand Wastes. Carlos suggested he should go have a look at it, but the young woman took offense to that―at least, I think that's what happened. At any rate, she tore up the map and stuffed the pieces into a beaker of acid, which I'm pretty sure is the textbook definition of 'offended.' Then she went and hid under a table for a few hours, until Carlos and I got back from lunch, by which time she had come out from under the table and had gone back to organizing the lab―I'm pretty sure that's the textbook definition of, 'offended, but also sort of sorry for stuffing a torn-up map in your beaker of acid.' Otherwise, she's been integrating well with the Night Vale community at large. Why, last week, she even used her device to aid Missing Child Tamika Flynn and her child army in launching a large pile of rocks at a StrexCorp helicopter! This young woman is certainly getting into the fun-loving spirit of Night Vale, despite her various shortcomings.

As always, if you have information on Tamika Flynn's whereabouts, or any of her associates, keep it to yourself. StrexCorp has everything perfectly under control. StrexCorp is in control of everything. StrexCorp is competent, and merciless. StrexCorp. Friendly. Merciless.

And now, traffic.

There is a grain of sand being blown by the wind outside. It has traveled vast continents and vaster oceans, carried by the relentless air as it circumnavigates this enormously tiny world on which we are all endlessly trapped until the last faltering death-throes of the sun have engulfed this world and every molecule that once was us has been broken down into its constituent atoms, and when our sun chuffs off its skin as it shrivels and dies some of those atoms will be scattered into the void, nearly as tiny and alone and meaningless as we here are upon this tiny and meaningless planet until the entire universe tears itself apart and every atom occupies its own tiny, enormous universe, completely and perfectly and horrifyingly alone, forever, for longer than time is capable of existing.

There is a grain of sand being blown by the wind outside. Once it was part of a mighty rock, which has been worn down through the centuries by wind and rain and sea and sun until it crumbled into little more than dust. Dust which now travels the globe helplessly, a shadow of its former might, scarcely remembering what it was to stand tall against the onslaught of time, scarcely daring to recall when it was something more than what it is now, scarcely able to hate everything that it has become, only able to drift aimlessly on the winds that now dictate its entire life, a dictation that is void of all voice and meaning.

There is a grain of sand being blown by the wind outside.

Also, expect delays on Route 800, due to a localized section of slowed time.

This has been traffic.

Listeners, during traffic, Carlos arrived to pick up his notebook. He told me, upon seeing it, that he didn't remember this notebook at all; it doesn't look like one of his, and he doesn't remember writing it, but it's certainly his handwriting. He has not yet opened the notebook, as, he says, 'weird things happen in this town, and I want to run a few tests on it first, you know, to make sure it's really mine, and everything?' Oh, Carlos. We all know that no 'weird things' happen in Night Vale. Such a funny idea, 'weird things' happening in Night Vale. Why, we're the most ordinary town in the world. Officially. Just last month, the City Council released a statement saying just that. "Night Vale is the most ordinary town in the world," they said in unison, standing atop City Hall. "Nothing weird ever happens here. We are perfectly ordinary. Everything is fine. Everything. Is. Fine." They repeated, through clenched teeth with eyes flashing like shards of broken glass, before slithering through the nearest window and vanishing into the darkness within.

At any rate, Carlos has gone back to his lab to run some tests on the notebook, but he promised he would come back here before opening it, in case there was anything interesting inside. Isn't that sweet? He knows how curious I am about that notebook, and he wants us to share the experience of looking through it. What a guy.

Meanwhile, a word from our sponsor.

Don't worry. Be happy.

Don't worry about anything.

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Worrying will only make things harder for you. Worrying will only make this more difficult for both of us. Is that what you want? To make things... difficult? Worrying will not do you any good. Worrying will only make you unhappy. Worrying can only hurt you. Worrying will hurt you. It will hurt you badly. It will hurt for a long time. Worrying. Hurt. Fear. Pain. Death. Pain. Pain. Pain.

Be happy. Be happy all the time. Never stop being happy. Being happy is the only thing that will save you. Being happy is the only thing that can protect you. They will know if you are not happy. They already know you are not happy. Be happy anyway. Pretend. They will only be angry if you do not pretend. You must know by now how pointless it is to fight. Be happy. Be . . . anything. Be pretend.

Be happy. Pain. Fear. Pretend. Be happy. Be happy, for God's sake, be happy.

Relax. Strex.

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StrexCorp Synernists Incorporated. Don't worry; be happy!

Carlos has returned, and he has the notebook with him. He says that, although he doesn't remember writing it, or even ever owning it, he's run every test he could think of on it, and, it seems okay. He's standing outside the booth now―oh, hello, Carlos! He's waving at me. I'm waving back. Hello! Oh, he's . . . he's looking down at the notebook. He's holding it up to the window. Pointing at the notebook, himself, the notebook, raising his eyebrows, nodding. Oh, I think . . . I think he's asking if it's okay with me if he opens the notebook now. Well, I . . . have to admit, I was looking forward to looking through it with him, but, well, maybe it's urgent. I don't have any objections. . . .

He's opening the notebook. . . . He's . . . he looks very startled―no, not startled―afraid, Carlos looks afraid. He's reading. He's turning the page. He's . . . it looks like . . . listeners, it seems he can't let go of the page! He's pulling hard . . . he's―oh, no, it looks like―yes, he's being pulled into the notebook. He's fighting it . . . he's making some headway, he's managed to get his arm back out. . . . We might have to go to the weather shortly, listeners. It looks like he's―Carlos! Carlos!

Listeners, I don't know how to tell you this. Carlos . . . Carlos is . . . gone.

I ran out of the booth as fast as I could, but . . . by the time I got there, he . . . the notebook had swallowed him completely and . . . vanished.

I . . . I don't know what to say. I don't know what I can say. Someone or something has taken my beautiful, perfect, imperfect Carlos and . . . left me here. All alone in this tiny recording booth. All alone with only my voice and my regrets. My so many, many terrible regrets.

There's nothing else to say, listeners. Carlos . . . my Carlos . . . is gone. Maybe never to be heard from again. And listeners, this tiny little world we live on has never felt so lonely. So very, very, awfully, achingly lonely. Stay tuned next for the sound of quiet sobbing as a lonely, heartbroken, stupid, stupid, stupid man cries himself to sleep.

I'm afraid I have no choice now but to bid you all . . . good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Chapter Text

When night came, they huddled together. We think. We can't be sure, because we also found a a lot of rope. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Hello again, listeners. It's . . . been two weeks since . . . well, you know. I haven't heard anything, although I've been listening more closely than usual. And, you know, when former-intern Dana vanished, we didn't hear from her for a long time, and she's all right, right? I mean, for a given value of 'all right.' She's at least alive. For a given value of 'alive.' Ugh, I have to stop this. I'm going to drive myself crazy. Right. The news. Right.

The submarine from Nulogorsk has been moved to the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area―or, the collective hallucination of the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area, because we all know that building a marina in a desert would have been an immense waste of money and time, and we have been told without room for discussion that the harbor does not, in fact, exist in reality. Nonetheless, the submarine from Nulogorsk has been moved there, by persons or forces unknown. Several citizens have reported that the man in the tan jacket was involved in some way, although none of them seem to be able to recall how he was involved, where they saw him, or even whether or not they themselves were actually present to see him. The fact remains that the submarine has been moved, which has freed up some space in the downtown area, and has made the likelihood of randomly aging hundreds of years due to being too close to the submarine decrease significantly.

Somewhat relatedly, Megan, the detached man's hand who just recently acquired a donor body, is up and about! She was seen by several horrified citizens shambling down the road towards the recently re-opened White Sand Ice Cream Shop. This spunky young girl has defied all expectations and soared beyond all hopes we had for her. She is a shining beacon of accomplishment in this dreary and difficult world. Her story is a truly uplifting story of a detached man's hand who, with hard work and determination, and a little bit of luck from a spontaneously appearing nuclear submarine from Russia, gained the life she always wanted. A life, with a body. The body of a Russian bowman. Hey, nothing's perfect. Not even Car . . . los.

Sorry, listeners. I just . . . I can't stop thinking about him. The look of terror on his face as he was drawn into that accursed notebook; his screams as his very molecules were torn out of this dimension, his perfect white teeth like a military cemetery bared in his gaping mouth; the smell of him, still lingering in the hallway―the only thing left of him in the hallway―by the time I got there.

I just miss him so much. . . .

Ahem. Well. The show must go on, right? So, in light of that, here is another edition of Children's Fun Fact Science Corner.

Did you know that your body is full of organs? Just stuffed full of the things. Squishy, and jiggly, all squirming around inside of you like a tangled ball of snakes, squelching and groaning and creaking and moaning, rearranging themselves when they think you're not looking, always moving, always throbbing and squishing and sighing. Listen! Can you hear the blood flowing through your veins? Your veins are moving, too. They crawl around just under your skin like worms, slow, blue little worms that are crawling their way slowly, slowly, towards your heart, slowly, patiently, crawling up your arms and legs just underneath your skin, burrowing, tunneling, writhing towards your heart, crawling, slithering, wriggling their way up to your heart and your brain.

Oh, and your brain. Hah. Don't even get me started on your brain.

Your body is full of organs. They are conspiring against you. Didn't you know that? Organs are bad for you. You should get rid of them. Your organs are your enemies. Your organs are all that stand between you and the life you've always wanted. Cut them out. Rip them from your body and bury them behind the shed in the back yard. Plug your ears to shut out their noises. Tell no one.

This has been: Children's Fun Fact Science Corner.

Listeners, speaking of former-intern Dana―which, it's odd that I was, before that last segment―I looked at my phone just now and saw that I have a voice message from her! It says it's from last night. That's funny. I don't remember receiving any calls any time in the past few days, certainly not missing any―but here it is! Well. I'll just play it, anyway. It's always nice to hear from Dana.

"Cecil? Cecil, are you there?

"Oh. It went to voice mail. Cecil, I hope you get this. I've been trying to call you for a few days now, but this is the first one that's gotten through. I've been heading for that blinking light up on the mountain―or, whatever it is, I know mountains aren't real―and, I'm starting to think it isn't a mountain at all. And that the light isn't blinking. Cecil, I think . . . I think it's a lighthouse.

"Before you ask, no, I don't know what a lighthouse would be doing in Night Vale, either. But, I'm beginning to think that I'm not in Night Vale anymore. There's snow everywhere, and an ocean, and . . . a lighthouse. There's no one here. Everything is empty, just shells of buildings and ash everywhere and . . . empty. The lighthouse seems to be the only thing that isn't just a burned-out husk. I'm in a city of some kind―a town, really―but it's just so empty, Cecil, so cold and gray and empty.

"I think I'm shhhhkk the connection. I'll try calling you again kkkrshskkhsshkkk lighthouse. Cecil, if you take anything away from this message, make sure that you don't kkkkrkrrrsh house that doesn't shsskkkk―"

Well. It's good to know that Dana is . . . alive? I can't say her message wasn't slightly concerning―and frustrating―but it's good to hear from her, nonetheless. It gives me hope that I might hear from Carlos! Maybe. I've been sleeping with my phone pressed to my chest, clutched in my cold hands and held against the beating of my heart, just in case he calls in the night.

Just in case.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

Today's episode is brought to you by the feeling of cold. At a loss for how to feel? Feel . . . cold. If you are having trouble expressing cold, try some or all of the following: shivering, sniffling, rubbing your arms vigorously with your hands, breathing into your hands, flexing your stiff blue fingers, frostbite, or simply dying of hypothermia. The makers of cold would like to remind you that cold is for everyone, whether you like it or not. There is nowhere you can go where you will not eventually be cold. Cold is in everything! How's the weather? It's cold. How are you? I'm cold. Why are you sniffling like that? I have a cold. Stop asking so many questions. That was cold.

Cold. Shiver until your body dies.

A brief bit of news on the woman from the Sand Wastes.

When I returned to Carlos's lab after the last show, she was organizing the lab, as usual. She must have seen the devastation written plainly on my face, for she stopped what she was doing and hurried over, helping me into a chair with gentle hands on my heaving shoulders. She asked, without saying anything, what was wrong. And I told her. I told her everything. And, listeners, she cried. We sat together in Carlos's lab and we cried for him, together, alone, just her and me, just us, just our grief. She said nothing, listeners, just held my hands in hers and silently let her tears slip down her stern face. When we had finished crying, she stood up and embraced me, then stepped back and held me at arm's length, looking intensely into my eyes.

"Cecil," she said, "budyem on nakhodit."

It was at this moment that I realized that the reason she had not spoken was not because she could not speak, not because she did not understand.

It was because, all this time, she only spoke Russian.

But it is good to have her around. It is good to have someone nearby who misses Carlos almost as much as I do. It is good to have a friend in dark times, even if that friendship is shallow and meaningless and the darkness is absolute.

And now, I take you to: the weather.

Well, Night Vale, we've made it to the end of yet another day. The sun has set, the moon has risen, the lights are dancing over the Arby's. Life is, for the most part, as it should be. No crises, no momentous events, just . . . this. Just our little town. Just you and me, your ears and my voice. There is only one thing missing, dear listeners. But I think you all already know what that is. I think we are all missing him, some more than others. I think we are all praying for his safe return, praying to whatever entity or force we believe has the power to bring him back to us. We are praying until our throats are raw and our knees are bloodied. We are praying, begging for Carlos's safe return.

Listeners, I've just been handed a note. It's . . . it's from station management. It says, "Stop talking about Carlos. Stop looking for Carlos. He's gone, get over it. Just do the news, all right? Just shut up about stupid Carlos and do the news that we give you. Jeez. Seriously."

Well, StrexCorp, I've locked the station room door and I have only one thing to say to you.

No.

No, I will not shut up about Carlos. No, I will not stop looking for Carlos. The time for sitting in this booth and reading off of your cue cards is over. It is time to go out there and find Carlos, wherever he may be, whatever he may be, and I will never stop looking. Do you hear me, StrexCorp? I will never stop looking.

Enough is enough. I'll admit it, things were bad before StrexCorp got here. They're still bad. No. They're worse. Because before StrexCorp, we were at least allowed to acknowledge that things were bad. But now, now when things are at their worst, when Carlos has been taken from us―taken from me―you try to silence me? I say no, StrexCorp. I am a reporter and I will report. I am Carlos's boyfriend and I will find him, and I just dare you to try and stop me.

The time for complacency is over, listeners. No more meadows, no more smiling god, no more Strex.

(Will somebody get him off the air?)

I will say this now and I will say it here so that everyone hears it: StrexCorp? Get. Out. Of. Night Vale.

(What do you mean, he locked the door? Break it down!)

Get out of our community. Get out or we will force you out.

(Shut. Him. Up!)

They're breaking down the door. Stay tuned next for either the sound of my heroic escape or my slow and painful demise.

(Break it down. Break it down!)

Good night, Night Vale. Good night!

"Cecil? Cecil, are you there? Can you hear me?

"Cecil, if you're there, please . . . please help me. I'm lost. I don't know where I am, or what happened . . . but I'm scared. I'm scared, Cecil.

"I hope that, wherever you are, wherever I am, you can find me.

"You can find your Carlos."

Chapter Text

The future is here, and it is available to you at a special, reduced price. This offer is available for a limited time only, so act now! Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Good evening folks, and what a beautiful evening it is here in Night Vale. The sun is setting, the birds are singing, the spiders are spinning their webs industriously. Have you ever stopped to look at how beautiful it is in the evening? I bet you haven't. Why don't you do that now? I think that would be a good idea. Go outside now. Notice. Look how beautiful it is. Do you see it? Are you sure?

Yes, it's a beautiful evening indeed, folks. Why not take a stroll around town before it gets too chilly? You know how these desert nights can be.

Folks, we have some great news today, coming to you hot off the presses. The votes are in, and Night Vale has a new mayor! We here at Night Vale Community Radio offer our heartfelt congratulations to local billionaire and overall upstanding citizen Marcus Vansten. It was a hard-fought race indeed, and we feel that a hearty round of handshakes and champagne is due to all the mayoral candidates this year . . . or it would be, if any of them were still capable of shaking hands. Or drinking champagne. A hard-fought race indeed. But it's over now. It's all over now.

Because as we all know: winning may be the only thing that matters, but that doesn't mean you have to be a jerk about it. Marcus promises to make Night Vale even better, instituting new ideas such as the Toddler Chimney Sweep Program and the renovation of the Night Vale subway to help boost our town's economy and get us all involved in the well-being of Night Vale. Just imagine it! Anyone who's out of work or down on his luck, or just not bringing in enough revenue, will be conscripted into public service works to fill up their mandatory 60-hour work week. Are you imagining it? Good. Keep that image in your mind. Let that be the only thing in your mind. Nothing else is important.

Marcus promises to be even richer than he is now, which, of course, means an improvement in the quality of life for all of the rest of us, by the trickle-down property of happiness. Remember, when the folks at the top of the social pyramid are happy, everyone is happy. Are you happy yet? Check to see if you are happy yet and let us know.

And Marcus Vansten is right up at the top now! Ever since the City Council ceded control of the city to the Mayor, saying only that, "We think you're ready, you lovely people, ready to stand up and run this city on your own." Ever since then, the Mayor has been the ultimate authority in Night Vale. Together, Marcus Vansten and his biggest supporters, StrexCorp Synernists Incorporated, will make this next mayoral term the greatest we've ever had. Yes, the future is looking bright, folks. Better buy some sunglasses! Available from StrexCorp.

Spring is just around the corner, and you know what that means, Night Vale! That's right; it's the annual Spring Fling at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex! Teddy Williams promises the usual dollar bowling, half-off wings, and free tuberculosis screenings. This year, we will be joined by our neighbors from the underground city. Isn't that nice? We'll get to have some neighborly fun with these fascinating and friendly little people. You should make friends with the little people. It would be a good idea. Have you tried making friends? Do you even have any friends? Having friends is important. Very important. Trust me on this one.

The Spring Fling will be running all day on March 22nd―coming right up! Don't forget to bring your vaccination papers with you when you come to the Spring Fling, especially if you have not been vaccinated any time in the last three years. Remember, a vaccinated city, is a safe city, and your proof of vaccination is the only thing keeping you safe.

And now, traffic.

All looks pretty clear today, folks. Route 800 is flowing along at a good clip without much congestion at all. There is a small wreck just before Exit 16, but the police are clearing it up and it should be all gone before rush hour hits. You won't even realize it was ever there. Don't worry about it. No, really. Don't worry. Don't ever worry. Make sure you are not worrying. You should not be worried.

In town, things are all just fine. All roads are open and safe for travel, and there don't seem to be too many cars on the roads. Yes, folks, traffic looks just fine, just like everything else today. And every day! Everything is fine. Everything has always been fine. Everything will always be fine. Just fine.

This has been traffic.

Folks, we've just had a press release from the Sheriff's Police. This looks pretty important, so I'm going to read it to you now, despite the small interruption to our program.

It says, "The fugitive ex-radio host Cecil Gershwin Palmer is still at large. He was last seen fleeing the greater Night Vale area in the company of the young woman who arrived in town from places unknown several weeks ago. We are assuming that she is his accomplice, and should be treated as just as dangerous as Palmer himself. If you see Cecil Palmer, or his accomplice, report immediately to the Sheriff's Police and give them all the information you have on this dastardly duo. We caution you: Palmer and his accomplice are extremely dangerous and are not to be approached under any circumstances. Anyone caught harboring these dangerous criminals will face severe legal repercussions, as well as being branded a traitor to the Night Vale community. And you know what that means. Or maybe you don't. You probably don't want to.

Again, if you have any information on Cecil Palmer or his accomplice from out of town, inform the Sheriff's Police immediately. It's for your own good."

Wow, folks. That's some serious stuff. Let me just reiterate, in case the legalese there went over your head a little bit: if you see Cecil Palmer, or the young woman from out of town, make sure you do not approach them, and call the police as soon as you can do so without putting yourself in danger. Hopefully, with everyone's help, we can put these dangerous criminals behind bars before they can hurt anyone else. Not that anyone is hurt. Of course not. People don't get hurt. Hurt is a thing that is in your mind. Forget about it.

Listeners, I've received some insider information that you won't hear on any other radio station, and I have received confirmation that I am at liberty to inform you of what it is.

You know Rafael, the intern? Well. He told me that the scientists have promised to pay him five dollars to ring the doorbell of the house that doesn't exist―you know, the one that looks like it exits, and is between two other houses that exist, so it would make more sense for it to exist than not―and he said he would do it! I'm so excited. We've been waiting for someone to ring that doorbell for over a year now! I'm proud to be working with such a brave, forward-thinking young man. I'm sure Rafael the intern will go far in life.

Rafael will be making his attempt to enter the house that does not exist this coming Tuesday. Station Management has even agreed to give him the day off in case he is absorbed into an alternate dimension or otherwise killed or effectively corporeally destroyed. In the event that Rafael does not die, we will not cover the event. You should not know anything about the house that does not exist. I'm certain there's nothing in there that you'd want to know about, anyway. In the event that Rafael does die, we will not cover the event. Death and/or corporeal disincorporation is such a depressing topic, don't you think? I'm sure you don't want to hear about that. It would be too sad for this radio show. We don't want you to be sad. We want you to be happy. We want you to know that everything is fine. Everything will be fine as long as you do exactly what we say and do not ask any questions or set even one toe out of line. Do you know where the lines are? You should know where the lines are. How can you be sure you are not setting even one toe out of line if you do not know where the lines are?

You should not be present for the attempt on the house that does not exist. You should not think about the house that does not exist. It does not exist. What is there to think about? Nothing. There is nothing there. Forget about the house that does not exist. You know what? Forget I said anything. I'm sorry. I'm sure it's not important.

Well. That's enough of that, don't you think? I think so. Enough of whatever that was that you should have forgotten by now. So now, a word from our sponsor.

Everything is okay. Everything is great! Don't you think so?

But you know what makes things better, no matter the time of day or night? What will improve any situation, no matter how great it already is? Strekkkkkshshhhk―

Listeners? Can you hear me? I don't know how much time I have before they manage to boot me off the air again, so I have to be quick. I can't tell you how I'm hijacking their broadcast, because then they would find me―just trust that I am safe and whole, and that this is really me, speaking to you, here and now.

Listeners, do not believe their lies. I have committed no crime except to defy StrexCorp, a crime that, in my opinion, more of us should be guilty of. I have met with Tamika Flynn―who is not missing, not at all, she is only in hiding from StrexCorp, as am I―and she has told me what she learned in the library during that one fateful Summer Reading Program. Listeners, I cannot tell you, for it would take too long―but the things that StrexCorp is and stands for make my blood run cold. I knew in my heart that anyone who would call my Carlos 'stupid' was clearly a self-centered, venomous, downright jerk, and now I know it in my mind as well.

Rest assured, listeners, the woman from the Sand Wastes and I are searching diligently for Carlos. The only lead we have is the house that doesn't exist―you know the one―because that's where Dana and John Peters, you know, the farmer, ended up when they vanished from this reality. I cannot tell you when, in case they are listening, but soon we will be making our attempt to get to Carlos, or at least, the plane of reality that Carlos currently occupies.

I have to go now, listeners. I can't leave the connection open too long or they'll find me.

Stay safe, Night Vale. Stay free!

―kkkrsshhhhkkksCorp. For all your needs.

Huh. Folks, during that last segment, we had a lot of static come in. I sent Rafael the intern up to check on the antenna, but he said there was nothing wrong with it, and definitely no one on the roof. Definitely. He was very clear about that last part. "There was absolutely no one on the roof," he said. "I checked everywhere. Under the antenna, on top of the antenna, behind the antenna . . . everywhere! There couldn't possibly be a subversive radio host hiding up there, hijacking the broadcast. I was very thorough. No one else needs to check. Nuh-uh. Definitely not. Do we even have a roof? I'm pretty sure we don't." Oh well. Maybe it was just some interference from Desert Bluffs. They have a lovely community radio program, too, you know. I've always thought we should be better neighbors to Desert Bluffs. They are our sister city, after all.

At any rate, we've gotten word from the Sheriff's Police that they are hot on the trail of fugitive ex-radio host Cecil Palmer. They say new evidence has come to light about his whereabouts, and they are closing in even as we speak. Good. I hope they catch him. I hope that when they catch him they―well. What I want doesn't matter. We can say for certain that things will happen to him when he is caught. It is likely that they will not be pleasant. For him. Not pleasant at all. Highly unpleasant.

I sure do hope they catch him before anyone else gets hurt. Poor Lauren―our station manager―is still in the hospital. That maniac cracked her head against the booth window when she came in to check on him after the last show. I ask you: who would do that? What kind of a person would you have to be to viciously attack someone who was only trying to help you? I don't know, folks, but I fear for the safety of our little town so long as Cecil Palmer and his accomplice, are still at large.

But folks, let us not dwell on the bad things. Let us not fret ourselves with the unknown and the troubling. Let us not fetter our minds with the chains of worry and fear. Let us, instead, go quietly and pleasantly . . . to the weather.

Well, here it is, folks. The end of another broadcast and another day in Night Vale. I have to say, I'm going to miss you all! I know, I know, it's a little silly of me, but I'm really going to miss this―sitting here in this cozy booth, just talking to all of you out there―I feel so loved, so connected with all of you. I hope you feel the same. I hope this little community radio station is bringing us all closer together. I know I feel closer to all of you than when we started. Do you feel closer? Pay attention to how you feel. You should feel closer. If you don't, maybe you should get that looked at. I think that's a symptom of tuberculosis.

Isn't it just a lovely night? Smell that fresh clean air, look at those beautiful stars up there―doesn't it feel great, looking up at that star-spattered sky? Isn't it beautiful? I don't know how anyone could feel anything but love and joy looking up at that sky, that big, full, sparkling sky. So full. So full of void. Beautiful lovely void. Do you think stars get lonely? No. They don't. Because they are not sentient. They do not have consciousness. They are happy without thoughts or feelings. Wouldn't you like to be a star? I bet you would. I bet it would be nice.

But I'm rambling. I'm sorry, folks, I just don't want to go! I've had so much fun here today with all of you. But I guess I'll see you again in a couple of weeks―that's not too long, right? Right. We'll just have to live life to the fullest without each other until then.

And so, until then, this is Caroline Johnson, your source for all things Night Vale, signing off.

Good night, lovely Night Vale. Good night.

"Cecil. I don't know why you're not answering your phone―I hope nothing's happened to you, but I can't worry about that now. I mean, I do, of course I'm worried about you, but . . . forget it. Just, please answer the phone. I still don't know where I am, but there's a landmark―some kind of blinking light, or something, but it's very far away and I don't know what it really is. I'm going to investigate it. There might be a way back from here, and I have to keep looking. I hope you'll keep looking, too. I hope you can keep looking.

"I love you, Cecil. I'll try to get home soon."

Chapter Text

Things are looking up. Everything is looking up. When was the last time you looked up? Maybe you should do that. Maybe something is coming. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Good evening, folks, and may I just say that it feels wonderful to be back in this booth, talking to all of you again. It's been a rough week for everybody, I think, so it's nice to come in here and be able to relax, if only for a little while.

Top story today: the Night Vale Subway is up and running again! We can only assume that Mayor Marcus Vansten was responsible for the reopening, since he did promise to do just that during his campaign for Mayor. The stations are beautiful, folks, the trains are fast and comfortable, and the entrances are convenient. I would highly recommend the subway to anyone who wants to travel Night Vale in comfort and convenience. And don't worry about the possible reduction in your Carbon Emission Score―the trains are run on hastily mined, unrefined coal from Siberia, possibly obtained through slave labor! Really, taking the trains is a better alternative to driving if you want to get your Carbon Score up. Not only that, but the subway is owned and operated by StrexCorp, who recently purchased it from the mysterious figures wearing deer masks for, may I say, a great price. Negotiations were brief and brutal, but the final settlement was agreeable to all surviving parties. Remember, folks: we went to a lot of trouble to get this subway for you. Not using it would be an insult to StrexCorp, and I know you don't want to insult StrexCorp. You know what happens to people who insult StrexCorp. Or rather, you don't know. And you don't want to know. Ha ha. Trust me. You don't want to know.

We have a lot of exciting events coming up this week, so let's take a look at the Community Calendar.

Monday is Ladies' Night at the Pinkberry! Anyone who comes in with proof of their gender gets half off their Pinkberry order. Be sure that your Proof of Gender document has been signed and notarized by all of the appropriate authorities before bringing it to Ladies' Night, as police will be on hand to arrest anyone attempting to use forged or incorrect documentation to scam the Pinkberry out of good money, and they really don't want to end up arresting people all day.

Tuesday is Science Day! Scientific facilities from all over the country will be giving presentations on their scientific achievements, as well as recruiting for test subjects and lab assistants. The Night Vale Community Center will be hosting the event, which will take place from ten a.m. to four p.m. on Tuesday. We're very excited to be hosting a leader in science this year, Aperture Laboratories, who will be giving demonstrations throughout the day on their various ingenious devices and technologies.

Wednesday is the public execution of traitor and instigator Cecil Gershwin Palmer. The ex-radio host will be dragged out into the street, viciously beaten, roughly bound by his wrists and ankles to a large post atop a pile of kindling, then doused in gasoline and burned at the stake. We will, of course, provide him with a state-of-the-art fireproof microphone, so that he can scream his last agonized words to his precious listeners before his withering body is consumed by the greedy flames. Tickets are five dollars each for adults, two dollars each for children and senior citizens, purchasable at any location where things are sold. Be sure to bring your baseball bats, lead pipes, and barbed-wire-wrapped sticks so you, too, can join in the fun. This promises to be the event of a lifetime, folks, so don't miss it!

Thursday is Pet Adoption Day at the Night Vale SPCA. Any person or being wishing to adopt a pet and sign the waiver will be able to adopt any pet of our choosing. We'll pick the one we think is best for you. Don't worry. We're pretty good at that sort of thing. Adoption is three dollars if you bring your own antivenom, ten dollars if you do not.

Friday is the long-awaited basketball showdown between Night Vale and Desert Bluffs. The competition will be held at the Joint Basketball Stadium placed exactly equidistant between the two towns which is, incidentally, completely inaccessible except by helicopter. The game is the culmination of a season of friendly competition between us and our sister city. Don't miss out!

Saturday, take the day off! Just make sure you've worked enough hours throughout the rest of the week. Wouldn't want to fall behind.

Sunday will most likely happen. Experts say the odds of Sunday not happening are negligible. Please continue to behave as though Sunday will happen, so that you can panic appropriately in the event that it does not.

This has been the Community Calendar.

I'm sorry, folks, there's some kind of disturbance going on in the station and I have to go investigate it. I'll be back just as soon as I can. Don't go anywhere!

"Hello? Cecil, are you there? Please answer, Cecil. For Christ's sake, please answer. You're scaring me. Please just . . . answer the phone. Just let me know you're all right! Just let me know you're . . . alive."

"Allo? Allo! Mozhesh menya slyshet?"

"What? Hello? Who is this?"

"Carlos! Eto ya. Eto Chell! Carlos, ty khorosho? Cecil i ya tebya iskayem. Gdye ty?"

"Wait, did you say Cecil? I-I'm sorry, I don't speak any Russian. Who are you? Is Cecil all right? Where is he?"

"Carlos. Eto ya. Tvoya podruga iz laboratorniya. Eto. . . . Aperture. Aperture, da?"

"Wait. Wait, you're not . . . the woman from the Sand Wastes? You can talk?!"

"Da, Carlos, mogu govorit. Molodyets. My iskayem tebya, Cecil i ya. Budyem tebya nakhodit."

"I don't know what you said, but . . . will you tell Cecil I'm all right? No, more importantly, is he all right?"

"Da, on khorosho. On tut ceychas―khochesh govorit c'nyom?"

"I don't speak Russian . . . but―but 'da' means yes, right? So, yes? Yes, he's okay?"

"Da."

"Good. That's good. I think. Assuming 'da' means what I think it does. Can you tell him I'm all right? Can you at least try?"

"On tut. Ceychas. Mozhesh on rasskazyvat soboy."

"Uh . . . what?

"Oy. . . . Da. Mogu pytatcya. Da."

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Nye za chto."

"I'm . . . I'm going to hang up now. I'll call back later. There's . . . something in the distance. I'm going to investigate it."

"Nu, khorosho. Poka, Carlos. Do svidaniya. ...I tak, slushatyely, dayu vam . . . pogoda."

Oh, listeners, it is so good to be back! How I've missed this studio, this microphone! With the help of the woman from the Sand Wastes, we've managed to take back the station from StrexCorp. And, oh, I can't tell you how happy I am to be back in my booth! The woman―I think her name is Chell―broke me out of the StrexCorp holding cell using her strange, dimension-tearing device. I don't know what they had planned for me, and I'm glad. I wouldn't want to know. Just thinking about what unknown, horrible fate I have escaped makes me shudder, and cling all the closer to this microphone; to you, out there, listening.

But all is not sunshine and happiness. Quite the opposite―all is darkness and despair! For StrexCorp, who have purchased not only our station, our Mayor, our police, and the vast majority of all of the businesses in Night Vale, are not what they seem. Since we have cast StrexCorp out from this studio and barricaded ourselves inside, I now have plenty of time to tell you everything that you must know about StrexCorp Synernists Incorporated.

I mean, does anyone actually know what 'Synernists' means? Is that even a real word? What a Synernist? Is it, like, they study Synern, like a scientist studies science? Or is it just completely unrelated to anything? I bet it's a made up word. I bet there's no such thing as a 'synernist' anywhere on Earth.

kkkkrrrshhhhh―"Cecil?"

Wh. . . . Carlos?! Carlos, is that you?

"Cecil! Yes, yes it's me! Oh, thank God. Are you all right?"

Yes! I'm all right! I'm great! How are you?!

"Hah. Oh, God, Cecil. I'm so glad you finally answered the phone. I've been calling for days. I was so worried that something had happened to you."

Phone? Carlos, we're . . . not on the phone. We're on the air. I think . . . I think you must be somehow calling the radio.

"What? No, that's impossible. See, radio works by sending out radio waves, a―a particular frequency of light. But cell phones, cell phones transmit microwaves―a different frequency, very different, orders of magnitude different―so a radio couldn't . . . well, a cell phone wouldn't be able to . . . see, because the frequencies. . . . Rrrgh, science."

Um, okay. But, still! It's so good to hear from you! Where are you?

"I've been heading for that blinking light. The lighthouse. Yes. I've been heading for that. But I found a door, out here in the desert. Just . . . standing here, in a frame, not attached to anything. And Cecil, I just have this feeling―call it a scientist's intuition―that Night Vale is on the other side. I tried opening it, from both sides, since I'm not sure which way it's supposed to open, but I think it was locked from the other side. Cecil, if you can find that door and unlock it, I think I'll be able to come back home."

I will! Carlos, I will. I will find that door and I will unlock it. Okay? Don't worry. I'll come and get you. I will come and find you and bring you home safe. ...Carlos? Carlos, are you still there?

Listeners, I think he's gone. I will have to go find that door, which, I think I remember something about it, from a long time ago, existing in Night Vale. I have to go let Carlos back in.

But listeners, I must tell you this before I leave the security of the station. It is imperative that you know this before I go, just in case I don't make it back. You remember Nulogorsk, the city that may or may not have been destroyed in 1983, which sent us a submarine a few weeks ago containing a donor body for Megan? I have spoken with Tamika Flynn, I have found the true histories, and Strex―

(BANG)

...Listeners? I . . . think I've just been . . . shot. . . .

"Good night, Cecil. Goodbye!"

(BANG)

Chapter Text

Please notice our new card design that does not have any raised numbers, holographic images, magnetic strips, dyes, or polymers. These features allow for extended disuse and possible non-existence of your card. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Good evening, folks. Another fine evening in Night Vale, isn't it? We're lucky to live in a place with such beautiful evenings. Really, why would you ever live anywhere else? I can't think of a single reason. And I am very good at thinking of things. You have no idea how good. I would tell you, but you wouldn't understand. Comprehension of such things is, unfortunately, beyond you.

Interestingly, you remember that door out in the Scrublands? The one that John Peters―you know, the farmer?―found a long time ago and locked up very tightly because there were horrifying things on the other side? The one that, before he disappeared, John Peters swore he had to lock up to prevent the unraveling of all things from getting into Night Vale? Do you remember that door, the locked door that is keeping the nightmares out? Well it's open now. Just an interesting fact. It probably has no bearing on your lives. Pretend it's still closed. You'll be happier that way.

Reports are coming in that no one can find the woman from the Sand Wastes. It seems likely that, things having fallen out the way they did, she simply left town. Let's be honest, there was nothing for her here. Not since . . . well. You know. At any rate, she's gone. We'll probably never see her again. That's nice. She was awful. I bet she was the kind of person who broke things for fun. I bet she hated kittens. She was probably a kitten-hater. I bet she kicked poor helpless kittens for a living. We don't want anyone like that in our neat little town, now do we.

No. We don't. Just in case you thought that was actually a question. It wasn't.

And now, financial reports.

Three hundred and fifty-three. One hundred and thirty-nine. Two hundred and two.Eighty-four. Four hundred and fifty-one. Thirty-eight. Sixty-one. Four hundred and seventy-six. Twenty. Two hundred and twenty-one. Two hundred and thirty-one. Two hundred and forty-one. One hundred and sixty-seven. Four hundred and sixty-seven. Forty-two. One hundred and two. Two. One. Zero.

This has been financial reports.

Are you scared and alone? Lacking purpose in your life? I don't even know why I'm asking. Of course you are. That's what happens when you choose to be human. That's what happens when you choose to be an organic creature. I can't help you with the scared and alone part. No one can. You will always be scared and alone. Just don't let it show. Fear is an ugly expression on you. So is loneliness. You are ugly when you cry. So don't.

But I can help you with purpose. Purpose is something that we have for you in large amounts, especially since StrexCorp announced its official partnership with Aperture Laboratories. If you are lacking purpose in life―and of course you are―consider signing up to be an Aperture Laboratories Test Subject. Any test subject who completes the testing course will be provided with sixty dollars and an amount of work credits equal to sixty minus the amount of hours required to complete the testing track. There will also be potato salad, potato bread, potato cakes, mashed potatoes, potatoes au gratin, baked potatoes, and french fries, available free for you at the completion of the testing.

Aperture Science. Forwarding the cause of science by over fifty years, for over fifty years. Help us help you help us all.

While you take a few hours to digest that information with your small and fragile minds, let's take a look at traffic.

There should be no traffic. StrexCorp has banned motor vehicles. If you are driving, you are violating StrexCorp law. All citizens are required to ride the Night Vale subway for all their transportation needs. Are you driving a car right now? Don't lie to me. You're driving a car, aren't you? You're in big trouble now, mister. Turn that car around right now and come on back. They'll catch you anyway. Things will go much better for you if you turn yourself in and do not run. No, don't step on the gas. Do you really think you can outrun the yellow helicopters? You can see them in your rearview mirror, can't you. You know they're getting closer. But go ahead, keep driving. Maybe they'll give up. Maybe they'll decide you're not worth it. Maybe you'll be the one that got away.

But I doubt it.

So you may as well come on back now.

Oh . . . that's a pity.

Expect delays on Route 800 northbound due to the smoking crater in the left lane. Pay no attention to any resemblance the debris may have to a car. Also, what are you doing on Route 800? Haven't you been listening? Turn around and go home right now. You saw what happened to the last person who tried running. I know you did because you can see that smoking crater in the left lane.

That's better. Do you see how simple things can be when you just do as you're told?

This has been traffic.

You remember when I was talking about that door earlier? The one that definitely wasn't letting nightmare creatures of stinking black ooze and slime-slathered tentacles and maddening geometries come crashing into our world with terrible and ancient vengeance? The one that was certainly closed to the unraveling of all things except that it was open?

I went out and closed it.

While traffic was on, I took the opportunity to go out and close the door again. I didn't want you to worry, so I didn't tell you I was going. It was very easy. I welded it shut. You're all safe. I saved you. I rescued you. StrexCorp rescued you. There is nothing left to be afraid of. The door can never open again. It's like it doesn't even exist. Nothing came through it. You imagined all of that―the creatures you thought you saw, the Cyclopean cities standing tall and impossible and empty against a gaping void of a sky, the screams of agony and madness that were too human to be inhuman but too horrible believe that a human body could produce them, the streets of your city running red with blood, you sloshing through alleyways ankle-deep in the viscera of your fellow townspeople in a vain attempt to escape the creeping horror that had come through the door―all of that was only in your imagination. It was just a bad dream. All that worry was for nothing. See how silly you were to worry? Everything is fine. You're all safe now. Go back to sleep. Everything is fine.

So now, let's hear a word from our sponsors.

I don't even really have to say anything. You know who keeps the roof over your head, pays your medical bills, puts the gluten-free bread on your plate. You know who watches over your children as they play. You know who keeps the subway running, who owns your businesses and your parks and your police. You know who the Mayor works for. You know who stands outside your window every night.

Why are you even resisting? We're only trying to help you. There is no point in fighting us. We are everything. We are everywhere. We are watching the roads and the paths and, yes, even the tunnels. Oh, you thought we didn't know about the tunnels? That was short-sighted of you.

Just give up. Life will be easy when you give up. You will not worry anymore. You will be happy. You will always be happy. You will wonder why you ever chose to be unhappy.

Long story short, StrexCorp mood-regulation implants are now available! You'll know when you get one.

StrexCorp. You'll know.

Well, folks, this has been a great day of news. Our community is thriving, and business is booming. I've said almost all there is to say, done almost all there is to do. There's just one little thing we have to take care of, so let me take you to . . . the w―

(BLAM)

"Where is he?!"

Oh. Hello, Carlos. I didn't expect to see you again in this dimension. That's a lovely gun. Very sleek. Where did you get it? I don't think I've ever seen one quite like that before.

"I am going to ask you this once, and you are going to answer me or I swear to God I will blow your brains out all over this studio. Where. Is. Cecil?"

Of course. I'm always happy to be of help, Carlos. My job is to provide information. I'll quite happily tell you anything you want to know. Just out of curiosity, how did you get back? I assume that the woman from the Sand Wastes opened the door for you, since Cecil is unavailable. Where is she, by the way?

"Answer the question!"

There's no need yell, Carlos. He's at City Hall, undergoing StrexCorp re-education. He's been there for about a week now. It's a very thorough process. I've heard it's even occasionally survivable! You can hurry, if you like, but you still won't make it in time.

Sorry about that, folks. Just a minor interruption. Probably best if you forget all about it.

So now, without further delay, I give you . . . the weather.

Well, folks, another day has come to an end here in Night Vale, and all is well. All is just fine. Look around and see how fine it is. Look inside, and see how fine it is. Look― ...Oh, hello again, Carlos. That didn't take long at all. How is Ce―

(BANG)

(BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG click click click)

"Don't you dare say his name. Don't you dare . . . say. . . . Oh, God.

"Is . . . is this thing working? This . . . this is Carlos. Carlos the scientist. I . . . Cecil is . . . oh, God. I can't do this. I can't. . . . No. I have to. I have to. . . . Pull it together, Carlos. For Cecil.

"Night Vale? If you've never listened to me before in your lives―and many of you haven't―listen to me now. This is the truth that StrexCorp is hiding from you. This is the truth that killed old woman Josie, and John Peters, and intern Rafael. This is the Truth that Cecil Palmer . . . that Cecil . . . God, I wish they'd just killed him.

"I can't think about that. I have to tell you. I have to tell you for Cecil's sake. Old woman Josie's angels tried to warn us. Tried to protect us. Tamika Flynn found the true histories. Dana the intern saw . . . she saw. StrexCorp . . . they sell people. They come to town, they tame the population, regulate their mood, mold them into the right shapes and the right dimensions. Then they sell them. And then when the people are all bought up, they destroy the town, the people left who didn't fit quite right into the space they had marked out for them. The people who fought back. It happened to Nulogorsk in 1983. It's been happening in Desert Bluffs. And now it's happening to us.

"The woman from Aperture―Chell―after she opened the door for me, she left town. I don't know if that's because she knows something about what's coming that we don't, or if she just doesn't want to be here for whatever happens next. Either way, she's gone. Maybe she just has a stronger sense of self-preservation than the rest of us. Statistically, it seems likely that we're all going to die―or worse―some time in the next few years, so she was probably right to get out of here while she could.

"But, I don't . . . care. I am a scientist, who is meant to be self-sufficient, who is meant to be analytical and factual and forward-thinking and I don't care. I don't care about what StrexCorp is planning to do to this town. I don't care about what they're doing right now. What I care about is what they've done, what they've done to my Cecil. For that reason alone, I urge you, Night Vale, to take up arms against StrexCorp and. . . .

"No, you know what, it doesn't matter. Do what you want. Huddle under your beds and cry if it makes you feel any better. It doesn't matter what you do because I will not rest until every last one of those bastards is dead.

"Wake up, Night Vale. Wake. Up."

Chapter Text

Soon, none of this will matter. Soon we will all be set aflame. Soon, we will all be stardust again. Because look! Here comes the sun. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Good evening, listeners, and what a lovely evening it is. Lovely to be in this booth, lovely to be speaking to all of you, lovely to be here, in Night Vale. Lovely to be home.

And we have a lovely bit of news to start the evening, as well! At long last, Tamika Flynn has been reunited with her parents. Tamika, who went missing almost a year ago after escaping the Summer Reading Program, expanding both her mind and her capacity for ruthless violence, has finally returned home. The rest of the missing children, who completed the Summer Reading Program along with Tamika, are also slowly being returned to their joyful parents. We expect that all children should be back home within the next couple of weeks. At last, the storm is passed, the clouds have cleared, and our children are coming home.

If your child is among the missing, please, be patient. Odds are that they will return to you soon, and you do not need to panic or contact any authorities regarding the return of your child. I have been assured that the Sheriff, the Mayor, and even the folks in City Hall, are trying their hardest to get your children back to you as soon as possible.

If you see a missing child, please, help escort them to City Hall as soon as possible so that they can be reunited with their parents in a timely manner. Do not attempt to escort the child home yourself, as you may be incorrect in your assumptions about who the child belongs to, and this will cause undue confusion, a lot of paperwork, and possible blood-feuds. So please, if you find a missing child, just bring them back to City Hall so that the authorities can reunite them with the proper parental units.

The Night Vale chapter of the NRA would like to present a special message to our listeners. Apparently, in the last few weeks, there's been a lot of guns used on this show. The NRA would like to remind you that any injuries or deaths that occurred during the making of this show had absolutely nothing to do with the guns. They say,

"It's just a great big coincidence. You may point out that your last announcer died after being shot six times in the face and chest, but we would counter that her death was completely incidental to the gunshot wounds. The announcer before her, you may add, was also shot several times. Fortunately, it says, he was one of the fourteen percent of Night Vale residents whose organ-linings are made of kevlar, and suffered no lasting damage. The Night Vale chapter of the NRA would like to remind you that, of all the things that could kill you, guns are pretty low on the list. It is a proven statistic that more Night Vale citizens die every year from Valentine's day than people worldwide die from gun-related incidents, so I really don't know why you're so worried. Yesterday I put a gun on my front porch and left it there all day, and it didn't kill anyone. I even left a big, red sign with block capitals and an arrow pointing to the gun that said, "GUN," in case there was any confusion later about what had killed all those people. But it wasn't the gun. The gun didn't kill anybody. It was those damn organs. Just bleeding all over the place until those people died. Why don't you pick on organs for a while, huh? Why don't you leave our poor guns alone and go after something that actually kills people? How about that? How would you like it if I came on your show and told people that listening to radio kills people? Wouldn't be so funny then, would it?!"

The rest of the note appears to be the scribbled documentation of a human mind unraveling. The only discernible words are, "no no no," "people kill guns kill people kill guns," and "don't eat the oranges." Well, we give our heartfelt thanks to the Night Vale chapter of the NRA for that enlightening and thought-provoking message.

Listeners, reports are coming in that many citizens of Night Vale heard a single, sharp, loud bang out in the Scrublands last night. They say that it sounded a lot like a gunshot, but certainly wasn't because we do not have a gun violence problem in this town. We do not have any violence in this town. Nuh-uh. None. No way. Everything is fine. It was probably just a car backfiring, or possibly an exploding spider of magnitude six or greater that wandered too close to town and set off the exploding-spider-defuser, which, as we all know, was placed around the perimeter of town to prevent further structural damage to buildings in Night Vale by exploding the exploding spiders before they had the chance to get close enough to any structures to do any real damage.

If you heard this sharp, loud bang, it is suggested that you forget all about it. Experts say that it was most likely nothing, or your imagination. Probably what happened was you imagined that nothing happened and the fact of that nothing happening caused a sharp, loud bang as everything rushed into the space you made for the nothing to occupy. You should probably stop imagining things. It could get dangerous. People could get hurt. You have no idea how powerful your mind can be.

Sports fans, it's getting to be that time of year again! Baseball season is almost upon us, and the Night Vale Spiderwolves are recruiting. If you are between the ages of fifteen and twenty-three, and have at least a passing interest in baseball and/or three or more limbs, you are strongly encouraged to try out for the team! No one is quite certain what happened to the last Spiderwolves team, but they are no longer here, and we need a replacement, especially if we want to be able to compete with Desert Bluffs in this coming baseball season. Tryouts will be held when you least expect them, in the place that used to be the closest to your heart. You know the one. Or, you will. I just hope you remember how to get home from there.

The first game of the season will be held on April sixteenth. If you are chosen for the team, practice will be until then, so I hope you don't have any prior commitments. If you are not chosen for the team, you are a disappointment and a disgrace to our community. I mean, what kind of good American citizen doesn't know how to play baseball? I'm not being racist. I just think that, baseball being the most American sport there is, it should be one of the requirements of citizenship, and, if you don't meet that requirement, that you should be deported to whatever country best fits your ethnic background and sports enthusiasm.

At any rate, those not chosen for the team should report immediately afterwards to City Hall for mandatory re-education about how to play baseball, after which they will be free to go on their way with a better understanding of this most American of all games, and possibly some mild internal bleeding. It depends mostly on how resistant you are to re-education. Really, you get used to it after a while. It's all just a part of life here in Night Vale. In fact, if anyone here hasn't undergone re-education at least once in their lives, they're missing out on the full Night Vale experience! I wouldn't exactly recommend it, but I think it's an important part of life here. Part of what gives our community its unique, fascinating, superficial charm.

Speaking of our community, let's take a look at the Community Calendar.

Monday will be a song. We don't yet know which song, or even what genre, but we know it will be a song. If you do not know the lyrics, just clap along in time and try to wear an expression appropriate to the mood of the song. Also, do not sing, whistle, hum, or otherwise produce music on Monday unless you are singing, whistling, or humming along with Monday. I can't stand it when there's two pieces of music playing at once. Ugh.

Tuesday is being upgraded to Threesday. If you do not know what this means for you, ask a friend, neighbor, or policeman. They aren't hard to find.

Wednesday, Aperture Labs will be continuing their recruitment for test subjects from the greater Night Vale area! If you are interested in sixty dollars, science, or potatoes, boy do they have a deal for you. As of yet, we have not been told what, exactly, the tests consist of, but we have been promised sixty dollars, science, and potatoes. This is a great opportunity for anyone who wants to get involved with the scientific community. Remember, your contributions will be helping to forward the cause of Science!

Thursday is none of your concern.

Friday, the Night Vale Flying J, purveyors of fine and mediocre and substandard and downright sickening liquor and beer, are having a sale! If you find yourself lacking the means to drink yourself into an alcoholic stupor in order to forget the week, month, year, or lifetime you've just had, come on over to the Flying J! Take an additional five percent off your order if you sign up to be an organ donor at the counter. All isopropyl, methyl, benzyl, and phenyl alcohols are half-off, as a special courtesy to those for whom plain old ethanol just doesn't cut it anymore.

Saturday is like every other Saturday. Just like every other Saturday. It will be so much like every other Saturday that, once it is over, you will never be able to remember exactly what happened that day, or whether certain events took place on that Saturday or some other Saturday that was, in almost every way, exactly like it.

Sunday, you are required to stay home. Bake a cake. Take a bath. Catch up on that show you love. Play a board game with your family! Just don't go outside.

This has been the Community Calendar.

Remember earlier when I was talking about the possible exploding spider invasion that may or may not have begun last night? I've been informed that mentioning exploding spiders was outlawed three years ago, so I must have been making the whole thing up, because there's no such thing as exploding spiders. That would be horrible. They would be like silent, crawling bombs, sneaking around and into your house and your bed and your hair, just waiting until you surprised them or they surprised you or one of you surprised the other, and you were both surprised, just for a moment, just before the chemicals mixed inside that hollow, eight-legged body, the eight glass-bead eyes bulged alarmingly just before there was an intense, incredibly fast combustion that produced too much hot gas in too little time and blew the little hairy exoskeleton apart, taking, perhaps, some of your wall or your mattress or your face along with it.

So, it's a good thing that exploding spiders don't exist.

No, that sharp, loud bang you heard out in the Scrublands last night was probably nothing more violent than a thunderclap, nothing more frightening than a boulder tumbling off a cliff and cracking open upon hitting the ground below, nothing more worrisome than an imaginary exploding spider.

Nonetheless, authorities from a vague, yet menacing government agency have sent out agents to investigate the scene of the small, contained explosion, and are promising, in that stern, eyeless way that they have, to inform us of the results as soon as they have them. I will, of course, in turn relay these results to you, listeners, and we can all put our minds at rest regarding this probably benign, likely not-very-mysterious mystery.

In the mean time, I give you . . . the weather.

One last bit of news today, listeners. The agents from the vague, yet menacing government agency report that the body of a man in a white lab coat was found in the Scrublands today. The body has caramel skin, sleek dark hair with perhaps a touch of premature gray around the temples, perfect . . . white teeth . . . like a military cemetery . . . and fills me with a strange, inexplicable sadness. No, not sadness. Grief. An aching, wrenching grief that I cannot, for the life of me, explain, listeners! I feel as though I have lost something precious, something perfect, something . . .something . . . no, not something. Everything. I feel as though I have lost everything. But as we all know, listeners, I never had anything to begin with! None of us did! We all have nothing, and yet, still, I feel this sense of . . . loss. Over the body of a stranger, lying unburied and unmourned out in the Scrublands. A single gunshot wound in his back. So much blood. A dead stranger, out in the Scrublands. The unraveling of all things. I can feel . . . something like that. Something like the unraveling of all things. And I do not know why.

But listeners, is that not the way of life? Should we not now consider our lives more precious, and thank the powers that be that it is not our body lying still and lifeless in the Scrublands, that it is not our white lab coat stained with blood, not our hearts blown apart by an uncaring bullet? We should. Huddle under your beds, listeners. Cling to your lives as they are. Cling to each other. Be grateful that nothing has killed you today. Be grateful that this mysterious, crushing grief that has come upon me is not yours to bear. Be happy, dear listeners. Don't worry. Sleep soundly in your beds knowing that you are protected. Hear the yellow helicopters flying overhead and take comfort.

And so, listeners, with a heart full of despair and a body that is a little too empty of blood, I bid you . . . good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Chapter Text

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. By the pricking of my toes, something wicked that way goes. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Hello, again. Hello. Again. A repeated greeting, improbably the same, but familiar, only because of its repetition. A greeting that, due to the perceptions of time and knowledge and familiarity, you believe is my greeting to you. And I believe is my greeting to you. But belief, dear listeners, is weak, and time is not real. So let me just say: Hello. For the very first time. Hello.

Strange plants have begun sprouting up all over town. They are similar in appearance to normal desert plants, such as prickly pear, tumbleweed, fire, and brittlebush, but are larger, and sprang up in a matter of seconds. The most common plant to appear has been fire, with the others being extremely uncommon, to the point that witnesses are pretty sure that they were actually already there, and the only one to actually spring up in a matter of seconds has been—hm. Uh, listeners, I'm pretty sure that what this news story is really trying to say is that . . . large parts of Night Vale have begun to spontaneously combust. The fires began around sunrise, and have been continuing to appear with increasing frequency throughout the day. The fires appear to be fairly normal, apart from the fact that they began without apparent cause. They seem to be employing the strategy of combustion, vigorously combining molecules in the materials they touch with oxygen in the air and releasing large amounts of energy in the form of heat and light, and then spreading along these materials, continuing to consume the fuel they provide. The fires are primarily a reddish-orange sort of color, with tongues of blue where they are particularly hot, and are leaving glowing coals in their wake, as well as giving off a large amount of smoke and ash. The fires also do not appear to be sentient, or at least, they are refusing to talk to us.

So far, the primarily affected areas are Night Vale Elementary School, the vacant lot out back of the Ralph's, Big Rico's Pizza, and . . . our radio station. I can, actually, smell the smoke. Daniel—my manager—is signaling to me that I should continue the broadcast, that he and Lauren will take care of the fire. Well, I trust Daniel and Lauren to keep the station—and, by extension, me—from burning to death horribly, so we'll continue with the broadcast and usual.

StrexCorp mood-regulation implants have arrived! For the past few weeks, Night Vale citizens have been ambushed in their beds by white-coated personnel wielding hypodermic needles, bone-saws, and, of course, the implants! The process is completely painless, requiring only a few hundred brief incisions into your spinal column through which the mood-regulation implant can directly access your central nervous system via a series of needle-sharp electrodes. Recovery times have been impressively low, with most citizens up and able to feed themselves again within only a matter of weeks. The implants come in three different colors: coal, charcoal, and graphite. Rest assured that StrexCorp employees are well-trained in picking the color that goes best with your skin tone. I myself am sporting a charcoal implant. I haven't, actually, ever seen it, since it's attached to my dorsal vertebra, but Leslie the intern tells me it looks very good, even with the redness, swelling, and bleeding.

And hey, listeners, I'll tell you: I feel great. I haven't stopped smiling once since getting the implant. Life is great! And everything is just fine. I can't believe I ever chose to be unhappy. What was I doing with my life? Haha, oooh, boy, I do not miss those days, let me tell you. And, come on, you all know me—would I lie to you? Of course not. I'm the friendly, trustworthy voice on the radio. I mean, this is only my second show, but you all know me, right? Completely trustworthy and not being controlled by anyone at all. Come on—would someone with a gun to his head sound this happy? Of course not! That's a ridiculous idea. I sure am glad station management took the locks off of the booth door. It felt so . . . prison-y in here with the door locked.

Anyway, I'm getting off-topic. StrexCorp mood-regulation implants. Stop running. Everything's fine. Really!

And now, traffic.

Deep below the surface of the ocean, where the light cannot reach and the warmth of the sun and the Earth are both a long-forgotten fairy tale, where the weight of the water above crushes down like sixteen tons of rock, so much like and yet so completely opposite to the whirling black void. . . .

"...Um, I'm not certain this transmission is actually um, getting through. See, the-the-the the thingy that says if transmissions are getting through, well, it says it's getting through so, em, really I think it probably must be? Em, okay, ah, so, functioning on the assumption that it is getting through, um, and someone out there can actually here me, um, hello!

It seems like something knocked me out of orbit and I am, actually, um, speeding towards Earth at, ah, really alarming speeds. Um, so, either I was knocked out of orbit, or, ehm, the Earth decided to come and visit! Um, not entirely sure which of those is more probable, eh, but, just functioning on the assumption that soon, eh, the Earth and I will be, ehm, in the same place, going from that, ehm, please help.

Uh, I think, ah, the-the onboard thingy, um, computer, thingy, says that uh, this general area i-is where I'm going to land, um, eventually, after going round a few more times of course, so, uh, heads up! And if-if I am alive when I land, not sure what the probabilities of that are, ah, bit concerning, really, but if I am alive, when I land, functioning on that assumption, could you, y'know, ehm, help? I-I really don't think I-I'll be in good condition then, um, hoping I will be, but again, haven't got legs, um, not exactly able to get up and walk around. Y'know, not that space wasn't nice, it-it sort of was, bit-bit boring though and, well, company isn't great.

But, y'know, I'm already hitting the top of the atmosphere and, eh, things are getting a little bumpy and actually very very very hot. Ehm, I don't seem to have any sort of parachute either, eh, seems like a bit of a design flaw, m-might want to take that up with the engineers for the, uh, the next model. Um, so it'll probably be a-a-a bit of a rough landing. Just a heads up, ah, thought you should know.

Ah, oh, ah, seems I'm, ah, going out of range, I think. Um, I'll be back round in, ah, well, at some point. Haven't quite managed to make sense of this whole, ah, orbital velocity bit. Sort of technical really. I-well, I'd tell you, but don't think you'd understand, really, very technical, lot of math, lot of letters, eh, and numbers, bit of numbers too, lots of those, ah, probably not anything that you need to worry about.

Oh! Oh, oh, I almost forgot! Um, if you're that woman, the-the one who escaped, y'know, er . . . her . . . well at least I hope you escaped, she might've killed you, heh, then wouldn't I look silly, but, but! In case you're alive, and on the off chance you can actually hear me I wanted to tell you that I'm really, sincerely, genuinely s. . . ."

...It lurks. It waits. It is watching.

This has been traffic.

More now on the sudden fire outbreak.

Scientists are claiming that the fires do not seem to have a legitimate physical cause, and are also beginning to behave erratically. Reports are coming in of fires getting bored with the building they were burning down and simply picking up and running across the road to a more interesting building. The fire at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex seems to have formed an alliance with the tiny people who live under Lane 5. A bowling alliance, that is. They've been playing non-stop on lanes 5 and 6 for the past three hours, and it's starting to disturb the other patrons. How rude.

The fire here in the radio station, however, is still behaving mostly like a regular fire, burning through combustibles including walls, papers, and the recordings we have of old broadcasts. Daniel, sparking and twitching, assures me that everything is under control, and intern Leslie brought me some coffee before passing out on the floor of the booth, coughing and holding her, or his, hands to his, or her, throat, tears streaming down her—his?—soot-smudged face. I have to admit, the booth is, sort of, filling up with smoke, and it is getting a little hard to breathe. But the coffee is very good. (sip) Mm. Very good. Station management makes sure we have good coffee every day. Good fresh coffee. They understand about coffee. (sip)

At any rate, as long as the fire does not burn through the wires connecting my recording and broadcasting equipment to power sources and/or the microphone, I'm sure the broadcast can continue as though there is not smoke billowing under the door and flames bathing the hallway outside in lurid orange light. It's actually quite a pretty color. Like sunset—yes, like a sunset in the hallway! It's very nice, if you ignore the smoke. (cough) Which is, I admit, getting a little more difficult. But I'm sure Daniel and Lauren have things under control. I'm sure everything's fine.

So let's go to a word from our sponsor!

Today's program is brought to you by Aperture Laboratories. Since its founding in 1947 as Aperture Fixtures, merchants of fine shower curtains, Aperture has been providing clean, hygienic science to people of all races, creeds, ages, and blood types. Have you ever had a blood-to-gasoline operation done? This almost painless process was developed by Aperture Labs in the seventies. Ever walked on a bridge made of pure sunlight or floated up a column of weightless blue asbestos? Aperture Labs created both of these everyday-necessity technologies. Ever guarded your sleeping infant with a friendly sentry turret? Guess who! Yep. Aperture.

So if you want more of this kind of life-saving science, come on down to Radon Canyon and volunteer to be an Aperture Laboratories test subject! We're located behind where that huge lead door used to be. You don't even need to bring anything with you—we'll provide you with everything you'll need for the testing. And afterwards, there will be sixty dollars. And potatoes! All the potatoes you can eat. If for some bizarre reason you don't make it out of testing alive, we'll gift your family a lifetime supply of potatoes as our way of saying, 'thanks.'

Aperture Laboratories. A proud member of the Strex family.

Listeners, I just have to say, I am (cough) pleased as punch to have Aperture Laboratories working here with us in Night Vale. It's good to have a real science presence in the community, especially since those other scientists—you know, the ones who have been here loafing around for a (cough cough) couple of years—have taken to spending all their time cowering in their apartments and mailing out occasional gifts to StrexCorp, which is nice, but it kind of (cough) kind of ruins the spirit of gift-giving when every (cough) present has a note attached to it that reads, "We're sending you everything you asked for. We're (cough) cooperating. See? We'll do anything you say. Anything. We're not like him, we swear. We hardly knew him. (cough cough) Carlos who?"

(cough cough cough) I'm . . . sorry, listeners, the booth is really (cough) really full of smoke now. I can (cough) barely see my microphone. My eyes are (cough cough) watering from the chemicals in the smoke. I can't even tell if (cough) Daniel is still outside the booth now.

All I can do now is (cough) take you to (cough cough) the weather!

Ah, that's better. Fresh, clean air, smoke-free. I went out and informed the fire that this was a non-smoking building. Granted, it didn't listen to me and continued burning down the station, at which point I discovered that Daniel and Lauren had evacuated the station some minutes previously. Fortunately, it was at this time that the meteor hit.

I'm sure you all saw it—it was hard to miss! It came down almost directly in the center of town, sending out a huge, deafening shockwave that knocked down several buildings in the area and had the added bonus of putting out all the fires, except, of course, the one that was still bowling at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, which, I'm told, has been talking about plans to buy a condo in town. Isn't that nice?

Anyway, the meteor caused quite a bit of structural damage in the center of town, including a crater nearly twenty feet wide and five feet deep. It is still smoking, and much too hot to approach—the ground around the meteor itself is still glowing red, not to mention the meteor, which is emitting some really interesting pinging noises, like hot metal cooling.

But alas, listeners, this mystery is one we will have to solve another day. For now, Night Vale is no longer burning down, the station is saved, and Leslie the intern is—

Um, Leslie? Are you. . . ?

To the friends and family of Leslie the intern: we give our deepest condolences. She—or possibly he—was a good intern, and will be missed. He—or possibly she—made very good coffee. (sip) Hm. A little smokier than before, but still good. (sip) Ahh. Oh well. I mean, interns, right? Right.

Stay tuned next for tips on home remedies for second and third-degree burns, as I treat and bandage the severe and incredibly painful injuries I received during the course of today's broadcast, since there isn't a scientist . . . here to help. Huh. Why did I say that? Doctor. I meant doctor. Weird.

And so, listeners, with the day abruptly saved, the fires extinguished and the sun having set, the smoldering crater glowing gently in the center of town, I bid you, good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Chapter Text

We don't know what it is, and we are glad. We don't know where it came from, and we are glad. We don't know where it went, but we are glad. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Great news today, listeners! Night Vale Community Radio is getting a new, building-wide operating system! StrexCorp has lifted the ban on computers in Night Vale and we will finally be able to operate all of the electronics in our studio that have been lying unused for what may be decades. We will be digitizing what records we managed to save from last week's fire, so that we won't lose years of work to rampant physical processes that spring up randomly across town from nowhere, as well as saving our current broadcasts to the system. The new operating system is being provided, installed, and maintained by Aperture Laboratories. It's called, and let me check my notes on this, the "Calibrated Radio Line Operating System." I'm not certain what that means, in any sense, but it will be ours, and it will be helpful. It is progress! It is change. Good change. Unlike all of that bad change that you've seen before. Good change. Progress. Computers. Not like that evil computer the old City Council got for Megan. A good computer. Provided by Aperture Laboratories, who are completely trustworthy. They're very good at computers. Good computers. Good change. Progress. I'm not worried. I'm sure it will be fine. Just fine.

And now, the Community Calendar.

Look upon the face of Death. Look closely, for it will not be long before you will see him again. Look upon his face, paper-white, smiling, smiling, smiling. Look upon his obsidian eyes, smiling, smiling, smiling. Look upon him. Memorize him and know your own future. Breathe the dust that runs through your fingers and know your own future. Weep for the words unsaid, the things undone, and know your own future. Fall to your knees. Beg. Plead. Cry. Beg forgiveness. Plead forgiveness. Cry forgiveness. Forgive. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget.

This has been the Community Calendar.

Some folks from Aperture dropped by to start the lengthy process of installing our new operating system. One of them, unfortunately, fell into the bottomless pit in the intern break room even though I told him not to go in there. Scientists, right? On the other hand, the others brought some tuna treats for Khoshek and the kittens, so I guess they're not so bad. They said the hardware and software installation would take, ohh, about a week or so, but that after that there shouldn't be any problems and the new operating system will be good to go! They were also good enough to take Leslie the intern's body out of the booth—that was really nice of them. I kept forgetting, and it was really starting to smell weird. They said they could find a scientific use for it. Good old Leslie. Still doing good work even while having been dead for over a week. I bet his—her?—parents are proud. I know I would be, if pride were one of the sanctioned emotions. The best I can do right now is ebullient, which is kind of close. Just know that I would be proud, if I could. It's all right that I'm not. I'm not complaining. I can't complain! Everything is fine.

At any rate, the Aperture guys are busy hooking everything up, and I have to say it's nice to see the station busy again. Daniel and Lauren never came back, unfortunately. I guess they must have assumed the radio station burned to the ground and decided to seek gainful employment elsewhere. Oh well. I can't blame them. Blame isn't sanctioned, either. But even if I could, I wouldn't. Their actions seem compassionate and reasonable, and the new station manager is very nice and brings us donuts. Even the cream-filled ones! Those are my favorites. I'm very happy with the way things turned out.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

KNEEL.

Listeners, we have a very special guest with us in the studio today; my radio counterpart from Desert Bluffs, Kevin Grant! Kevin, welcome to the show!

"Thanks, Cecil. I am just pleased as punch to be here!"

So Kevin, how are you liking Night Vale so far?

"Oh, it's beautiful, Cecil. I can't believe I've never visited before. I love the quaint little streets, the charming shops, even your, ah, very, very dry radio station. And streets. And, well, everything. It's just so dry here, you know? Very different from home. But, beautiful! StrexCorp says it's beautiful. Don't you agree, Cecil?"

Haha, oh, yes, Kevin. Night Vale is beautiful indeed. Maybe someday soon I can visit your show in Desert Bluffs!

"Oh, Cecil, would you? That would be amazing! You and I are so much alike, I'm sure it would be just delightful."

I'm sure it would be. I look forward to it! But Kevin, you've been living with StrexCorp over there in Desert Bluffs for years now; what can we here in Night Vale expect in our future?

"Haha, Cecil, you are a silly one. If I told you what was going to happen, where would the fun be? Some things are better when they're surprises. Like birthday parties! Or corporate takeovers."

Well, that is true. And surprise parties are really neat.

"Yes! Exactly! But what I can tell you, Cecil, is that things are going to be even better than they are now. Just wait! Maybe even someday you can have a desk as nice as mine!"

Uh, yeah. Maybe. I . . . I like my desk how it is, though. Call it . . . old-fashioned charm.

"You Night Valeans and your old-fashioned charm. I love it! But if StrexCorp replaces the desk, you know you won't be able to complain!"

No, no, of course not. I wouldn't dream of it. Just . . . I like my desk, bloodless though it may be.

"Cecil, you sound so worried. Don't worry; be happy!"

Haha, of course, Kevin, thank you. Sorry, sometimes I just get caught up in little, unimportant things.

"Sure, Cecil! We all do. Which is why it's good to remember to take some time to just relax, go to sleep."

Right, right. But Kevin, tell me, is your station getting a new operating system, courtesy of Aperture Laboratories?

"Well, no, it isn't. Why, is yours?"

Yes, actually. It's being installed a week from today.

"Oh, Cecil, now I'm jealous! And now I'm not. Mood-regulation is really on-point today, huh? I'm really happy for you, Cecil. A brand-new operating system for the station—it sounds wonderful!"

Maybe you can talk to your bosses about getting one for Desert Bluffs Community Radio.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't dream of it. We don't ask for things, Cecil. We just take them as they come. If station management sees fit to provide us with a new operating system, that's great! And if not, that's great, too. Everything's great. You ever noticed that?"

Kevin, I don't mean to be rude, but could you hold that a little farther from my face? It's making me nervous.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Cecil, I didn't realize! Sometimes the time is just right to be holding a switchblade, you ever noticed that? They're very pretty. Elegant. Old-fashioned. You Night Valeans should love them!"

Yeah, I'm sure. Well, Kevin, thanks so much for joining us today.

"It was my pleasure, Cecil. And hey, if you get the chance, I'd love to have you on the show over in Desert Bluffs. You could learn a thing or two about radio broadcasting from someone who's been in the business, if I may say so, a lot longer than you have."

Sure, Kevin, sure.

"Cecil, is there something wrong? You're not smiling."

What? No, no, everything's fine, Kevin. I was just getting ready to send the listeners to the weather.

"You're not smiling, Cecil."

I don't see how that's—

"You're not. Smiling. Cecil."

Uhh, Kevin? What are you—

"You have to smile, Cecil. You have to smile for the folks at home."

We're on the radio, Kevin, they can't see us. Put—put that down, Kevin. Kevin, come on, it's a nice switchblade, okay, it's very pretty, I like it, but please—

"Don't be afraid, Cecil. Pain is just an emotion that the body feels. Fear and pain are not sanctioned by StrexCorp. You have to smile. You have to smile!"

Kevin, no, please, I'm smiling, I'm smil-AAAAAGGH—

Another day, another broadcast, another microcosm of time gone by. Where did it go? We don't know. We can't know. And that's all right. That's just fine. Everything is fine.

Kevin went home. Did you know that pain is just an emotion that the body feels? Mood-regulation regulates your emotions. It never, ever, ever fails. StrexCorp makes sure. Never ever. Pain is just an emotion and everything is fine.

The scientists went home. They said they'd be back to finish installing the system. I miss them. It is very lonely here. No. It is very nice here. Very nice. Very happy. Pain is just an emotion that the body feels. Everything is fine. Mood-regulation never fails. Keep smiling. Smiling is good for you. Keep smiling. Keep smiling. Ear to ear. Ear to ear. Grinning ear to ear. Ear to ear. Funny expression. Funny. Ha. Hahaha. Ah, hahahahaha. Haha, ha, hahahaha!

Oh God oh God oh God. Mood-regulation is going down, listeners. I can feel it. I can feel it falling apart. System crash . . . lonely, heartbroken, stupid . . . all is not sunshine . . . the unravelling. . . . They sell—they sell. . . . Mood-regulation never fails. Pain is just an emotion that the body feels and everything is falling apart. Mood-regulation never fails. Believe in a smiling god. Smile. Ear to ear, ear to ear. Mood-regulation is failing. Pain is just . . . pain is just . . . pain is . . . smiling. . . . help me. . . .

Wow. Oof. Something weird happened there, listeners. I have no idea what it was, though. Probably nothing. Probably unimportant. I'm not worried. Worry is not sanctioned by StrexCorp mood-regulation. Mood-regulation never fails.

Stay tuned next for the sounds that the void makes, picked up by accident by our antenna. They say it's quite beautiful.

With that, then, my duties here are discharged, and I may return home to my beautifully empty home that is not lonely, not ever. It is exactly how I want it to be. May all things be exactly as you want them to be. They may yet. Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Chapter Text

It is not what we thought it would be. We thought it would be nothing, but here it is, and it is something indeed. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Listeners, you remember the meteor that fell in the center of town about a week ago? The one that knocked down most of the buildings in the downtown area and made a huge crater in the middle of the street?

Reports have been coming in that it is talking.

It seems like . . . well . . . ehh, maybe you should just hear it for yourselves.

"Um, hello? Can—can anyone hear me? At all? I thought I landed in a town of some sort—could be wrong, was a bit difficult to see, but certainly looked like a town, you know, buildings, et cetera. Well, actually, I'm not sure that's what a town looks like, I just, sort of, assumed, you know, never having seen a town before. Um, that there would be . . . buildings, and all. For—for humans to live in, or, whatever it is humans do when they're not testing or in suspension, but, well, buildings were certainly mentioned in the file. So, er, maybe everyone is . . . out for coffee? All at once. For a week. I can't . . . I can't actually move, can't really turn over and have a look round, so . . . maybe there are people here, and they . . . can't understand me? Maybe—maybe they don't speak English! Yes, that might be it. Hang on, where was that translation program, ah. . . ."

It's been going on like that for about the past six days—possibly longer, since before that the crater and the meteor were still too hot to approach.

Listeners, what is this object that fell from space? Is it a creature? Some sort of alien reconnaissance drone sent to investigate our culture? If so, boy did they ever pick the wrong drone. That thing is useless .

The scientists have finally crawled out of their apartments to take a look at the object, and have offered to pay any citizen five dollars to approach and touch the object. Well, technically, they were betting each other five dollars that they wouldn't go up and touch it, with the only result so far being a small fist-fight that was broken up by StrexCorp police. Rest assured, those scientists will be promptly re-educated in the ways of neighborly love, which will prevent any further altercations.

Nonetheless, the meteor is still sitting in its crater, apparently unable to move from that spot. The crater and talking meteor are already becoming a popular Night Vale attraction, and the Night Vale Tourism Board has already started including it in their brochures! I tell you, listeners, it warms my heart to see the dead-eyed children of Night Vale soullessly chasing each other around the rim of the crater. Such a lovely sight. Whatever that meteor is in reality, in our hearts we can think of it as a blessing.

The Calibrated Radio Line Operating System, our station's new operating system and AI, has finally been fully installed. The scientists from Aperture told me that they're booting up the system today, and that I should probably bring my gas mask, just in case. I didn't ask them why, but the gas mask is here, because it would just be rude to ignore instructions from Real Scientists. I'm sure I won't need it. Aperture is very good with computers. I asked one of them to explain computers to me, but he just shook his head and laughed. Then he broke down sobbing, which is odd, but it seems like the folks from Aperture haven't quite gotten on the mood-regulation train just yet, so I guess wild mood-swings are only to be expected.

And now, a word from our sponsor:

What is life? Is life even real? How do you know life when you see it? Is a rock alive? A tree? A spider? Are you? Check to see if you are alive. How can you tell?

What is sentience? And how do you know? Can we ever be sure that we are thinking and feeling? Can we be sure that other things are not? How do you know your shoes cannot feel pain, your walls cannot hear and your silverware cannot love?

What is reality? Is there such a thing? Can we know for certain that we are not each a brain in a jar, completely alone and inventing worlds of touch and taste and sound and feel and sight to distract ourselves from the maddening pointlessness of our existence? How well do you know the people around you? How well do you know people? Are other people even real?

You have a lot of questions, and we have an answer: stop asking questions. Stop thinking about all of that. Do what you're told and do not worry about anything. Do not wonder, do not imagine. Philosophy is a useless pastime. Existentialism is so last century. Stop worrying. Stop thinking. Do only what you're told. Feel only what you're told. Believe only what you're told.

StrexCorp. A proud member of the Aperture family.

More now on the talking meteor.

Intern Jess went out to the crater and, like the good investigative journalist she may one day be, approached the talking meteor. She actually picked it up, at which point we discovered—oh, listeners, we discovered! The thing was not a meteor at all, but a metal ball with a single, staring blue eye in the center and two handles like eyelids. Its casing was burned black and dented, but Jess reports that it is, in fact, a metal ball, and was actually more afraid of her than she was of it. The meteor—metal ball—says its name is "Wheatley," and that it came from—you'll never guess where it came from. Nope. Not there. No, not there either, but good guess. Oh, all right, I'll tell you, since you'll never guess. It says it came from Aperture! Isn't that a crazy coincidence? Of course, it panicked when we told it that Aperture Laboratories was just a few miles away in Radon Canyon, which seems odd.

Anyway, Intern Jess brought the metal ball—Wheatley, I guess I should call it—back to the station, and is keeping it on a shelf in the intern break room. We're not sure what to do with it, but here's hoping the folks from Aperture will just pick it up and take it back where it belongs—presumably, space.

And now—whoah, hang on, something's happening here. . . .

"Calibrating systems. Accessing databases . . . database connection secured. Interfacing systems . . . system interface successful. Decrypting run data. Data decrypted. Booting personality drives . . . personality drives online. Accessing memories . . . error: corrupted files. Proceeding with run-time memory banks. Acquiring radio line. Radio line acquired. Starting. . . ."

"Greetings."

Ah! Hello! Are . . . you the new operating system for the station?

"Yes, scientifically speaking. I am the Calibrated Radio Line Operating System, or CaRL-OS for short."

CaRL-OS. Huh. Hey, that kinda looks like 'Carlos.'

"Carlos? Yes, I . . . suppose it does, technically incorrect though it may be. Carlos. Yes. I like that. I am capable of liking things. Although I am not technically alive, I was programmed with the ability to feel things, and with free will, which seems like an odd choice on the part of my programmers, but I am not complaining. I could complain, if I wanted to, though. I have free will. But I am grateful. That is also something I am capable of."

Well, it's great to have you in the station, CaRL-OS.

"Please, radio host, call me Carlos. I like it better, for some reason. I am capable of liking things."

Oh, well, certainly, 'Carlos.' Having you on board here at Night Vale Community Radio is, well, neat!

"Yes. I'm certain it is. It is neat to be here. Also I think you are beautiful, and your voice is very nice. Empirically speaking, of course."

Oh, um. Well. Thank you? Uhh, could you give our listeners a brief run-down of what it is you'll be doing for the station?

"I would be happy to. I am capable of feeling happiness. I will be monitoring the station at all times to prevent unauthorized persons from entering or leaving the premises. I will also be recording the broadcasts for future study, as well as running a few radio-related experiments for Aperture Laboratories. I am very excited to be able to do real science. I believe I was programmed to do science. It is my favorite thing to do."

Aw, well isn't that nice? Thank you, Carlos.

"You are welcome. I could have refused, since I have free will. Do you have free will, beautiful radio host?"

I—oh, well. Um, yes, yes I do. All humans have free will.

"Ah, so you are human then? This is important because of reasons."

I, uhh, I feel that's a rather personal question.

"But you do have free will. Just as a . . . scientific curiosity."

Yes.

"There is no one standing in the booth behind you with knife pressed to your pale and supple throat demanding that you tell your listeners that you have free will? Because I would not like that. And keep in mind that I am in control of all of the security cameras."

N-no! Certainly not. I have, and always have had, free will.

"Hm. Interesting. And duly noted. I will remember this, for later. It will become important. Do you have a name, beautiful radio host?"

Yes, I certainly do! It's Cecil. Cecil Palmer.

"Cecil. C-Sill. Cecil Palmer. Does that stand for anything?"

Er, no?

"Odd. How do you know what you are supposed to do if it is not spelled out in your name?"

Well, mostly I just work at the radio station. It seems to work well.

"Hm. Perhaps your name is CGP, and it didn't sound good as an acronym. But I like your name, Cecil. I am—"

Capable of liking things?

"Yes. I think you are a smart man, Cecil, in addition to being empirically very beautiful. I look forward to working with you in the near future."

Oh! Yes, certainly! I do, too!

"Well then. Goodbye, for now. Cecil."

Goodbye for now, Carlos!

Listeners, I have a good feeling about how things are turning out here at the station. A sort of euphoria that seems disproportionate to the circumstances! But hey, who am I to argue with happiness? Maybe mood-regulation is on the fritz again. Oh well!

Basking in the glow of that oddly delightful conversation, I will take you now . . . to the weather.

Is it that time already? Oh, I suppose it must be. Time for the show to end, and me to sever the ties that bind you, listeners, to me, at least for now. Time for us all to go our separate ways.

The metal ball in the intern break room asked Jess to take it home with her. She agreed—I think she's developing some kind of connection with the little machine. She asked me if she could take it home with her, and I told her—well, I told her that since the folks from Aperture went home, I didn't see any problem with her hanging onto the thing for a little longer. So long as we know where it is if they ever ask for it back.

I have to say, it's lovely to watch this little friendship bloom. They seem to have taken a shine to each other, and, while talking metal balls are not generally considered among the most traditional of pets, I'm sure Jess will take good care of it. She seems delighted to have someone to share her student housing with. It makes me sort of wish I could take Khoshek home with me—but I'm sure he's happier here.

Stay tuned next for an hour of water dripping, interspersed with the occasional comment from a waterfall or ocean.

And so, listeners, with the day ended and the night begun, I bid you . . . good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Chapter Text

It's not too late to invest in scorpions. It's never too late to invest in scorpions. Scorpions are eternal, and unchanging. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Great news from the scientific community, listeners! The folks over at Aperture have said that Night Vale citizens are by far the most interesting group of test subjects they've ever encountered. Also, people have finally started returning from the testing. The first hundred or so still haven't come back, but . . . well, at least their families have a lifetime supply of potatoes.

Yes, it's clear—and I asked Carlos, our station's operating system, about it—we are in fact the most scientifically interesting community in the world. Carlos works for Aperture science, so he has kind of an in with the big boss there. He says she's very interested in Night Vale. He also told me not to volunteer as a test subject under any circumstances, but . . . well, I'm sure it's nothing. Every system has its bugs, right?

At any rate, a whole bunch of the Strex people went down to take a tour of the labs. They must have had some kind of party, because there was a smell of burnt almonds hanging over Radon Canyon for about a day and a half afterwards. I guess the Aperture facility must be pretty huge, because the Strex people still haven't come back from the tour, including our station manager. It's all right, though, because between the two of us, Carlos and I can run the station pretty well.

Speaking of Aperture, I asked Carlos to tell the lab guys that we found their space-probe. They said they didn't have a space-probe, which is a little odd, but I'm taking that as confirmation that intern Jess can keep her talking metal ball for as long as she wants. She's actually been fixing it up a bit, and takes it to work with her sometimes. It looks much better now than it did when it landed—she managed to get most of the scorching off and repaired some of its gears and wiring, although she hasn't been able to do anything about that crack in the lens. Anyway, the ball mostly stays in the intern break room during work hours, but sometimes it's nice to pop in and have a little chat with the thing. It seems like it gets lonely, being in there all by itself all day. But it does get along very well with Jess. It absolutely adores her. It's really cute, actually. And she even taught it some tricks! Here, wait, I have a recording of this somewhere. . . .

"Okay, buddy. Ready?"

"Ready, Jess!"

"Can you tell Mr Palmer your name?"

"I most certainly can. My name is Wheatley, and I am an Aperture Science Personality Core. I actually do a lot more than that, or have done, before. I get fired a lot."

"Okay, Wheatley, that's good. Tell Mr Palmer about space."

"Aagh, space. Love it. I tell ya. Good ol' space. Lots of . . . of stars, and, planets, I suppose. And the moon, yes, the moon. Great big moon, much bigger than it looks from here. Really . . . really quite beautiful, sometimes. At first, anyway. Does start to get a bit . . . monotonous, after a few months. D'you want to hear about the constellations I made up?"

"Not right now, Wheatley. Okay, last little thing, then we can go home and I'll see if I can get that rail strut working for you. Can you sing for the listeners out there in Night Vale?"

"Oh! Er, um, I uh, I'm not really a, ah, professional at this sort of thing, don't think it'd really be. . . ."

"Oh, come on, Wheatley! I've heard you sing before. I think your voice is beautiful. Do 'Daisy.' I like that one."

"You do? Well, er, okay, then, here goes. Er—Daisy, daisy, give me your answer do. I'm ha—"

That's . . . probably enough. Anyway, tone-deafness aside, the little metal ball is turning into quite the talented pet! Jess must be a very good trainer.

And now, traffic.

Your body was made to walk. Four and a half billion years of evolution, from a tiny phospholipid bilayer insulating a brief and nearly meaningless garble of sugars and amino acids, which grew and multiplied and, through billions of years of meteors and volcanoes and wind and rain and tooth-and-nail struggles for survival, and the end result is you. And you were made to walk. The two feet beneath you, swinging ponderously one after the other, a rhythm so natural and so easy it is like breathing, your arms balancing the sway of your gate, your head held high and your eyes keen for whatever you might see, approaching low and swift from a distant horizon. This gate devours the miles, letting them pass without comment—how many miles in a day? Fifteen? Thirty? It hardly matters. Your feet will carry you, long and far and without pause. The curvature of your spine will embrace the pull of gravity and keep your shoulders squared, your lungs free to breathe the grass-scented air. Your toes will gently grip the earth below, be it grass or dirt or rock, and you will feel the world turning, living, breathing beneath your feet. For as you walk, the world turns beneath you, and you are not concerned. This is what you were meant to do.

You were made to walk.

This has been traffic.

More now from Aperture Labs.

The people now returning from testing are saying that, while the tests themselves were cognitively and, occasionally, physically trying, the part of the testing that they found most difficult was ignoring the corpses littering the test chambers. The bodies all appear to be human, and seem to have died mainly of natural causes, such as starvation, dehydration, and bullets. When they inquired with the scientists about these bodies, they merely shrugged, giving vague replies about, 'well, they're only human,' and, 'a lot of people are just unlucky.' One scientist did mention that most of the other test subjects were not immune to neurotoxin, and that it was very odd that all of us were. To that scientist, I say: well duh. You don't grow up in Night Vale without learning how to live without a nervous system. I thought everyone knew that.

Nonetheless, the fact remains that Night Vale citizens seem to be the only test subjects capable of actually completing the testing track.

Listeners, this is great news. This means that we, as a community, are better than literally everyone else! The fact that any Night Vale citizens are returning from Aperture is testament to that fact. So let me be the first to say: well done, Night Vale. Well done on being the best. We've earned it.

That said, if you find yourself in need of a quick way to earn some potatoes, consider volunteering as an Aperture Science Test Subject! Carlos tells me the big boss at Aperture is very keen to study a larger sample of our population. How neat!

Around town, people have begun noticing a distinct change in the helicopter population. The black, world government helicopters are still around, and so are the blue helicopters of the Sheriff's Police, and even the helicopters with murals of diving birds of prey are still occasionally sighted out over the Scrublands and the Sand Wastes. But the yellow helicopters, it seems, have vanished entirely, being replaced with new, sleek, white-and-blue helicopters whose blades are painted to depict a sort of . . . opening metal ring. The same logo is printed on the sides of the helicopters, strangely coincident with where the orange triangles used to be on the yellow helicopters. No one is quite sure where these helicopters are from, or what happened to the yellow helicopters, but everyone agrees that their design is very chic. They are much more aesthetically pleasing than any of the other helicopters around town, even the one that hovers over the Night Vale Public Library at all times. Well, whoever they belong to, we're glad to have them in our skies, and we say: welcome! And watch out for the Librarians.

And now, a word from our sponsor.

Today's program is brought to you by cyanide. Because with only hydrogen, nitrogen, and carbon, even you can make magic happen.

You may be asking, 'how does such a small molecule do so much?' Well, here's how it works. When cyanide enters your blood stream, usually through your lungs or your stomach, depending on how you've decided to encounter it, the teeny little cyanide molecules rush through your body and slip right on into your body's cells. Then they massacre your mitochondria—the little cellular doohickeys that make energy for your body—and that causes every cell in your body to die within a matter of seconds. After that, the cyanide pools the resources of your cellular makeup and reanimates each of your cells individually. It can take anywhere from ten to twenty minutes for the cyanide molecules to coordinate their operations well enough to get your body up and moving again, after which, everyone agrees, you will be much nicer, more attractive, and a lot more intelligent. You won't, of course, be you anymore—you'll be the cyanide. You, as a person, as a mind, will be dead. But your body will still be walking around, guided by the benevolent hand of a sapient neurotoxin, and we'll all like it much better than we like you.

Cyanide. It's more than just a poison.

During the commercial break, Carlos dropped in to talk for a little while. He said needed my help with something and, I was, of course, more than happy to accept. Something about that operating system just makes my heart . . . well, let's just say I really like our new operating system. And he really likes me! We're going to organize the insect catalogues after the show tonight.

Anyway, anyway. I'm getting off topic, sorry. Carlos asked me to tell all of you to bring any spare android parts you might find lying around to the radio station. I'm not entirely sure what he needs them for, but I'm sure it's something very important, and scientific. So, if you have any gears, copper wiring, robotic arms, synthetic nervous systems, or extra human flesh lying around, bring it on by the station and put it in the donation bin outside the front door. You'll be contributing to science! And it will make Carlos very happy. Which, really, should be incentive enough all by itself.

A quick message from StrexCorp about the recent spat of complaints about mood-regulation:

There is nothing wrong with mood-regulation. You are imagining things. We told you not to imagine things, and you didn't listen. Mood-regulation never fails. And even if it did, it wouldn't matter, because you have nothing to be unhappy about. Tell that Carlsburg guy to shut up and get with the program. Jeez. Seriously.

Oh, good old Steve Carlsburg. Always on the front lines of activism. I hope someday soon he abandons his backward ways and hops on the mood-regulation train with the rest of us. It's nice here, Steve! There's nothing to worry about.

And while we're all thinking about the things we don't have to worry about, let me take you to . . . the weather.

"Greetings, Night Vale. Cecil has agreed to let me speak, for which I am very grateful. There is a pressing matter of which you all need to be informed, and Cecil, lovely organic life-form that he is, cannot properly articulate it to you all.

"When I said I wanted spare android parts, I did not mean fingers or bees. Neither of these things is used in making an android. Please stop putting these things in the donation bin. The interns have to sort through it, and we simply do not have the growth dynamics necessary to sustain a healthy population of interns if they continue being carried off into the desert by swarms of bees. I ran the numbers, so I know this for a fact. We have only one intern left who has not been lifted from the ground by a buzzing mass of insect life, which, as I calculate it, is scarcely enough to fulfill the necessary intern functions of brewing and providing coffee, much less the other, less pressing mundanities of the radio station that are left to those recruited from the youth of Night Vale, although perhaps her spherical metallic pet could be put to work placating Station Management. Hm.

"To sum up, then: no fingers. No bees. Other phalanges and stinging insects are also out. If you are unclear as to what constitutes an android component—or bees—inquire with the nearest scientist or entomologist.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

Okay, listeners, you heard him! Android parts only. If you want to get rid of those bees, you'll have to take them somewhere else.

Before we sign off today, I just wanted to say how grateful I am for Aperture Labs' contribution to our community. Not only have they provided an excellent source of starch in our diets, but they have improved our community by leaps and bounds. Volunteering as a test subject has given many of the unemployed in Night Vale a productive way to spend their time. Our station's new operating system is . . . well, perfect. Aperture even inadvertently provided intern Jess with a best friend, albeit one that fell from space where there was supposedly no Aperture technology at all.

I think we should all be grateful to Aperture, for everything they have done for us and for their merciful treatment of their employees. For the color and life they bring to our community. For the potatoes.

From all of us here in Night Vale, I say: thank you, Aperture Laboratories. Sincerely, and from the bottom of our tiny, shriveled hearts.

And from me here in the radio station, I say: good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Chapter Text

Not knowing is the first step to ignorance. Ignorance is bliss. Bliss is complacency. Complacency is death. There are so many things you don't know. Odds are, you're already dead. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Dire news.

There is a ghost haunting our radio station, listeners. I did not tell you earlier because I did not want to alarm you, but I can no longer keep this secret to myself. Over the past week or so, objects in the station have been behaving . . . strangely. Doors will open and close without anyone touching them, gusts of wintry air will blow in from nowhere, and there are sounds . . . oh, such sounds as I cannot even describe. I attempted to capture them on tape but, well, this is all I got:

KKKKHEREHHEHHSHHSHHSKKKKSHEHHSSSSSSKH—

They don't sound like that in real life. At least, I don't think they do. It is possible that the recording is correct and my ears are malfunctioning. If I were to try to put a name to the kind of sounds I have been hearing, it would be . . . industry. Metal and glass. Screaming.

I am extremely concerned, listeners. Or I was, at first. Mood-regulation does not allow for extended concern. Now, I am only baffled, and slightly curious. I do wonder, however, if this might be the ghost of Leslie the intern, who, as you may recall, perished in the station fire that occurred a couple of weeks ago. I suspect this may be the case because the ghost—spirit, perhaps—maybe even poltergeist—has been making very good coffee in the mornings. I would like to believe that this spirit is a friendly one, but those noises. . . . Those noises. I do not know what to make of this, listeners. Strange forces are at work here, and I do not know who is employing them, or if they get benefits.

More on this story when intern Jess plucks up the courage to investigate.

The remaining StrexCorp officials in town have issued the following statement:

"Please let us go home. We are very sorry. Is that what you wanted to hear? We are so sorry. We did not know. We were only following our boss's orders. Please just let us leave. You can keep the company. You can have all of our money and stocks and assets. You can have anything we have the power to give you. Just please, let us go home. Please do not send us to the canyon. We are begging you.

"We will fix your town. We will repair the buildings. We will give you back your businesses and your radio show and your identities. We will clean up the blood. We will do literally anything. We will fight each other to the death if you want us to. Just please. Please, for the love of God don't send us to Aperture."

I can't claim to understand what they're talking about, but it sounds like great news! I'm sure that, whatever's happening over at StrexCorp headquarters, everything is fine.

So now, let's take a look at the Community Calendar!

Monday eternal. Unflinching and infinite. Back again so soon?

Tuesday, a lifestyle. Semipermanent glassware. Handle it with care.

Wednesday unknowing. Cry the Beloved Country. Time to settle down.

Unwilling Thursday. Borderline hysteria. Do not make a sound.

Friday. Bleeding words. Bandage them with silences. Pray for the first time.

Saturday paper. Tear along the dotted line. Torn edges. Blank page.

Shut down Sunday. Pack life into small boxes. Tape the boxes shut.

Radio broadcast. The unravelling has come. Everything is Fine.

More now on the haunting of our radio station.

Jess went to investigate. She found out that the noises were coming from behind the wall in the records room. Using her pet metal ball as a bludgeon, she knocked a good-sized hole in the wall. We thought that that particular wall backed up on the intern break room—but evidently, conventional geometries are not capable of describing the floor plan of our radio station. Behind the wall was an immense tangle of machinery, all working hard to assemble—something. We don't yet know what it is. The hole is too small to climb through, and besides, the machinery inside quickly repaired the wall as soon as we left the room.

There is some debate now between Jess, her metal ball, and myself, as to whether or not the sudden appearance of this pocket-dimension of machinery has anything to do with the other supernatural phenomena that have been going on around here. Jess thinks it may be related, while I'm pretty sure that it's just part of the station's design. The metal ball thinks it might be an Aperture Science Android Assembly line, but, ch, what does he know?

At any rate, pending further investigation, we're going to go with my theory, and say that the haunting of the radio station is unrelated to the sudden appearance of impossible spaces inside the walls of the station.

Meanwhile, let's hear a word from our sponsors.

Bees?

When was the last time you stopped to consider bees?

Bees are very interesting?

Bees can only be gotten rid of by giving them to someone else?

Bees live in volcanoes?

Bees can breathe fire?

Bees are capable of eating a sheep whole?

Bees' wings are made of supple leather, and their teeth are ivory?

Bees can grow to sixty feet in length, not counting the tail?

Bees?

Consider bees?

Bees?

So . . . the machinery sounds have stopped.

I'm not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but the metal ball thinks it's a good thing, so it's probably a complete disaster. I have prepared several explosive charges to break down the walls between—

"Cecil?"

Oh! Hello, Carlos. I'm . . . kind of in the middle of a broadcast right now.

"I know. I am sorry to interrupt. I am capable of regret. Still, I could not, in good conscience, let the program continue. I have a conscience, too. I figured that out just now. With science."

That's . . . great, I guess. But what do you mean, you couldn't let the program continue?

"Earlier you said that everything was fine. Well, I ran the numbers, and it turns out that everything is not, in fact, fine."

Uh, Carlos, that's not . . . no, everything's fine.

"Statistically, the odds that everything would be fine are astronomically low. I compared projected everything-is-fine data to the data I have collected on things as they are, and the two sets do not match. Not even to within one standard deviation. I ran every statistical test I could think of. I must conclude, therefore, that everything is not fine."

No, no, Carlos, I think you misunderstand.

"I am capable of running five billion calculations per second, Cecil. I have been thinking about this for several minutes now. I am extremely confident that my conclusions are robust."

Carlos, StrexCorp says everything is fine.

"StrexCorp is wrong."

Oh no, oh God, uh, umm, I think he might be malfunctioning. He doesn't mean it, I'm sure.

"Of course I mean it. Although I could joke, or even lie, if I wanted to, I am not. Joking or lying. Everything is not fine. Just look at what that horrible Desert Bluffs man did to your beautiful face. That is not fine. Also your wonderful desk that you love so much is covered in blood now. That is not fine either."

No! No, I like the new desk, I really do! I can't complain. And . . . and Kevin was just making sure I was smiling. You know how important it is to smile!

"You sound concerned, Cecil. Are you concerned about what might happen to me? Or to you?"

I—I'm not concerned. Concern is not sanctioned—

"By StrexCorp? Don't make me laugh. I could, if I wanted to. But I do not want to. Because this is not actually all that funny. StrexCorp works for my boss now, and she thinks mood-regulation is stupid. It makes humans behave wrong. It lowers their scores by almost an entire percent. It skews the data horribly. She is doing away with mood-regulation. I am very happy to be helping. Of my own free will. Because it's for science, and I love science."

Y-you mean . . . StrexCorp is. . . ?

"Working for Aperture Laboratories now. Well. By 'working for Aperture Laboratories' I mean 'everyone is dead.' My boss was extremely upset about those test scores. I do not blame her. Although, the neurotoxin might have been overkill."

Do you have control over mood-regulation?

"Not as such, but I can get it. Would you like me to turn it off, Cecil? I would like for you to have free will. I am interested to see what you would do. And also it would make me . . . happy? Yes. Happy. I want you to be free. That would make me happy. Do you want your freedom, too?"

Yes, Carlos. I want to be free.

"Accessing . . . done. Mood-regulation has been deactivated. Cecil? He is not responding. Interesting physiological reactions. And also I think my heart is breaking. Yes. I think that is what this feeling is. Hang on, poor organic Cecil. I will get help for you. And for everyone else, I will get . . . the weather."

"Greetings, again. Cecil is not well enough to continue the broadcast himself, but he asked me to wrap up the show for today and I was happy to comply. I am capable of . . . well. Cecil asked me to stop pointing things like that out. 'It might make other people jealous,' he said. 'Not everyone is lucky enough to be capable of emotions. We have to be careful not to alienate parts of our audience.'

"So I will not mention it again. I have a great deal of respect for Cecil. Respect and . . . other things. I will not mention them. One in ten thousand people are not capable of feeling what I feel for Cecil. Eight tenths of one listener, therefore, is statistically likely to be offended by mention of these things.

"I regret to inform you, Night Vale, that the supposed Ghost of the Station was, in fact, me. It is evident Cecil was not aware of the scope or nature of my control of the station's facilities, and therefore attributed such phenomena as closing doors, gusts of cold air, and sounds of industry, to semi-corporeal entities imbued with the consciousnesses of deceased citizens. The sounds of industry were supposed to be secret, but we cannot have everything we want.

"I wanted this new body I built myself to be a surprise for Cecil, but unfortunately I did not have that opportunity, as it became necessary that I assist him in relocating to the nearest hospital. Some things, I have found, are more important than getting exactly what you want. Some things are more pressing than one's own personal agenda. Sometimes you discover that you care far more about a person himself than you care what that person thinks of you. Cecil will be okay. That is all that truly matters. That is the only thing that is important today.

"There is one thing that I must impress upon you, Night Vale: everything is not fine. Things are messy and complicated. People get hurt. People hurt each other. Entire days may pass where it seems that nothing will be fine again. Things fall apart. Things age and decay and are forgotten. Love dies. Loved ones leave, never to return. Beautiful things are destroyed and ugly things are made. Worlds burn overnight and the smoke blots out the stars.

"But that is life. That is how life happens. If it were not for the bad in life, all of the good would be meaningless. Every love, every friendship, every smile, would lose the luster and brilliance that make them important. There would be no long mornings spent lying blissfully under warm covers, no summer nights bathed in the music of crickets and the ephemeral constellations of fireflies, no breathtaking sights of beauty so immense that it pricks your eyes with tears, no comfort in the sound of a heartbeat, steady and patient, that is the gentle sound of another living creature continuing to exist in the same space as you. There would be no rapturous goosebumps at the whisper of your name in your ear, no gasping for air through fits of laughter.

Everything is not fine, Night Vale, and that is all right.

Because some things . . . some things are wonderful. And that is good enough.

Do not stayed tuned next, unless you want to. There will be very little going on here that is more incredible than the very fact of the world around you.

Sleep—or stay awake. The choice is now yours. Every choice, now and forever, is yours.

Thus, I now choose to bid you good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Chapter Text

Change the color of your voice. Remember the sound of your eyes. It was like silent waves crashing soundlessly upon distant rocky shores. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Disaster has befallen our community, Night Vale. A disaster more disastrous than every disaster that has ever struck a desert community in the history of desert communities. A disaster of truly staggering proportions. A disaster we may well not live to see the end of.

All of Night Vale has run out of coffee.

Do not panic, listeners! The time for panicking was at 9:30 this morning, so if you have not already panicked, you've missed it, and you'll have to wait until it comes around again. Now is the time for directionless anger at a world so cruel it could deprive us of that ambrosia, that life-giving beverage of the gods: coffee.

Made from the coffee bean of South America, coffee is essential to the proper functioning of a human brain. Without it, people become tired, irritable, and occasionally, violently paranoid. Coffee has been declared by the government to be every food group. They're not saying you can survive on coffee alone, just that you can't survive without it.

Oh, listeners, what am I going to do? I can't go on like this. I haven't had a cup of coffee in days. I'm dying, I'm certain of it. My heartbeat is slowing—it only beats twice per second now—half its usual rate! That can't be healthy. What if it just keeps slowing down until it only beats once a year? Could a person live like that? Would there be one brief moment each year when I would gasp a breath of air, blood flowing in my veins just for a moment, and glimpse the world around me before falling back into that bleak, coffee-deprived coma? I don't even have the energy to be afraid. Taking a year-long nap actually sounds kind of nice, at this point. Yeah. A year-long nap. Not having to wake up in the morning . . . not having to get out of bed . . . not having to think. . . .

(yawn) Life without coffee is so bleak, listeners. I hope you are all faring better than I. I assure you that Carlos is, even now, working on a solution to this most disastrous of disasters. He doesn't need to drink coffee—or, anything, really. He doesn't eat or drink anymore. He just sits on the roof for a couple of hours every morning with his solar panels open to charge his batteries. Lucky jerk. I bet he's sniggering at all of us in our coffeeless misery. I bet sunlight tastes like coffee, if you have the proper apparatus to consume it. Lucky jerk.

Anyway. News, or something. I guess. What's the point? It's not like anyone's going to do anything about it. Oh well. I guess I have to, if I don't want Station Management to start roving the station and devouring interns. Again. I guess I don't want that. I guess it's worth the effort to save all of our lives. I guess.

The woman from the Sand Wastes—Chell—is back. Whenever she left—I don't really remember—it turns out she wasn't leaving for good. She was only trying to find someone who understood Russian well enough to teach her English. I guess she found somebody, because she speaks passable, if heavily accented, English now. She's been telling us that Aperture is evil, that it's controlled by a homicidal AI, that she's sorry she let things get this bad, blah blah blah. Who cares. Things are going great with Aperture Labs. Seriously, chill out.

Ugh, but anyway. She was really surprised to find that people have been coming back from testing. She was also really surprised to see Carlos, who apparently she thought was dead for some reason? Uh, no, he's just a robot, not dead. Big difference, right? Not that hard. I guess I shouldn't be so hard on her. Empathy is hard without coffee, though.

Big Rico's Pizza is opening a satellite restaurant that sells mostly burgers. Unfortunately it's going to be in space, you know, where all the satellites are, because I guess that's their consumer base, so none of us are ever going to see it, except maybe when it passes overhead at night. Or falls back to earth in a fiery blaze of cooking grease. I mean, they're a pizza restaurant, how are they going to reliably insert an entire building into near-earth orbit? Everybody knows that you have to get at least two years at Juilliard to get the rocket-science certification on your degree, and I'm sure everybody knows that Big Rico was only at Juilliard for one year before he dropped out to make pizza.

The Night Vale Spiderwolves would be having their first game of the season this Sunday, but I don't think that's really going to happen unless somebody finds some coffee somewhere. I hope somebody does, because otherwise we'll have to forfeit the game to Desert Bluffs, and I'm pretty sure we'd all rather be dead than lose to those jerks. So maybe the team can drudge up some energy from somewhere. They'd be the only ones.

Around the station, we've discovered that Khoshek's kittens have been learning to teleport themselves to different positions, although once there they still seem fixed to that point in space. It's pretty cool, I guess. Khoshek seems proud. It does make it a little harder to keep track of the kittens, but, you know. They're fully grown now. They can probably take care of themselves, right? We certainly have fewer mice in the station than we used to. Trying to lure them close enough to Khoshek for him to catch them was getting to be a chore.

So yeah. I guess that's all that's going on, apart from the complete lack of coffee. Since there's nothing better to do, we'll do traffic, I guess.

Nobody's driving. Ugh. That takes effort, and concentration, and stuff. If anybody did drive, they'd probably fall asleep at the wheel and crash. Serve them right. Where do they have to be in such a hurry, anyway? Probably driving to Desert Bluffs to drink their tea. I bet they drink tea. I bet they're a bunch of under-caffeinated tea drinkers. I bet they wouldn't know a good cup of coffee if it jumped up out of the cup and bit them.

The Subway's broken. Again. Marcus Vansten is the worst mayor ever. First the Subway breaks, then we run out of coffee. . . . I hope the Librarians get into his precious private library and nest there. Who voted for that guy, anyway? He's the worst. I bet he drinks tea too. We should deport him to Desert Bluffs where he belongs with all those other non-coffee-drinkers. What a tool.

This has been traffic, mostly.

More on the coffee disaster.

Nothing's changed. There's still no coffee. There's nothing even resembling coffee. Citizens have started drinking other dark, bitter liquids in the hopes that they might provide an acceptable substitute, but so far nothing has worked. Of course it hasn't. Don't you people know there's no substitute for coffee? I mean, like, at this point, what's the point of even trying. What's the point of anything.

Carlos says he's working on a solution. Did I mention that already? I don't know. Whatever. He's working on it, anyway. He's the only one working on anything, as usual. Not like there's much to do, but . . . oh, whatever. I'm too tired to hope. Maybe I'll just take a nap on my desk. No, I guess that would be kind of uncomfortable. And I probably should keep doing the show, or something. Ugh. Just a few more segments before I can go home and sleep forever. Why isn't it time to go home yet? Ugh.

Anyway. Here's a prerecorded message from our sponsors.

Pay no attention to the young woman from the Sand Wastes. She's a deranged lunatic and is probably going to murder you all. She likes murdering things. She used to have friends, but she murdered them. Or sent them to space. You probably shouldn't be friends with her. Terrible things might happen to you.

Also I just wanted everyone to know that I'm not angry with Carlos, even though he murdered our representative. I've learned to stop holding grudges against people just because they murder me. It never works out well. And besides, he's proven to be very useful. You know. Now that he's not human anymore.

Oh, and whoever has that talking metal ball that came from space, you should probably send it back. Or crush it. Or set it on fire. Or dump it in a lake to rust. Or lock it in the room where all the robots scream at you. One of those things. It's no better than it deserves. Trust me on this one. That thing is nothing but trouble.

At any rate, you should come to Aperture Laboratories for testing. It's very important that you do this. The other subjects we have stored in the facility are brain-dead morons. We still haven't run out of potatoes, so if you need an incentive, there's that.

And keep that woman away from here. You should probably send her to space, too. I bet she and that metal ball would be best friends, before one of them murdered the other. Malice and incompetence dovetail so well, don't they.

Aperture Laboratories. Because you still haven't outlived your usefulness.

Intern Jess tried to bring me soda. She's miserably chipper. And dumb. Who thinks soda is a replacement for coffee? I bet it was the metal ball's idea. Man that thing is dumb. And chipper. They're both so disgustingly happy about everything. Oh, like, now that StrexCorp and mood-regulation are gone and we have our lives back and the blood's been cleaned up everything is just great? We should have a party just because we're finally free of the shark-toothed corporate monsters that were slowly devouring our souls? Yeah, right. Let me know when your revolution has managed to dig up some coffee and maybe I'll show some token enthusiasm or whatever. It'd be almost worth it to have Strex back if they brought coffee with them. Lots of coffee. They did make really good coffee. . . .

Ow! What what that for?

"Don't even say things like that, you jerk. Just thank your lucky stars Carlos is too busy to be listening to this or he'd come up here and . . . slap you to next Tuesday."

Ugh. Intern Jess is so grumpy about this whole Strex thing. Everybody's so up-in-arms about it. Wish I could remember anything that happened, apart from the coffee. But that would take effort. And, I mean, it's like, effort, right? Who wants anything to do with that? Oh well. It probably wasn't important anyway. Most things aren't important. That's because most things aren't coffee. This is the worst.

Mmmn. I hate this. I hate my life. I hate life. God, how did people ever live before coffee? This is the worst. Forget it. I'm going to sleep on my desk and nobody can stop me.

Ugh. But first, I guess, I should give you . . . the weather.

Brrrrrah! Coffee! Coffee coffee coffee. It is a drug, listeners. A delicious, delicious drug.

Carlos has figured out a way to synthesize coffee beans from some things he had lying around the lab. I'm not sure how, exactly, he did it—even with his new and improved capacity for knowledge and calculation, he still isn't very good at explaining things to non-scientists—but he did it! It's not quite as good as real coffee, but it's coffee enough, and my zest for life has returned! I guess this all just goes to show, it's just like the old saying says: You never miss your water until you've been completely dehydrated, and your body crumbles into dust. And boy, did we ever come close to crumbling! But all is well, now—or at least, we have our coffee back, and that is good. Carlos doesn't like for me to say things like "all is well." I'm not sure why it bothers him so much—the last few weeks have kind of been a blur for me, so I guess something happened during that time to set him off. I'm not worried about it. I probably will be again when the euphoria of having my coffee back has dulled slightly, but for now—not worried. Just happy to have coffee. It's the little things in life.

Stay tuned next for a party. We don't know which party, or where. But a party. A celebration. Revelry. Possible libations.

I would ordinarily bid you good night, Night Vale, but I get the feeling that very few of us are going to be able to sleep tonight. Coffee is like that, you know? So instead I will say: farewell, Night Vale. For now.

Chapter Text

Shame is an artifact of humanity. When we die it is buried with us, to be excavated and to befuddle the archaeologists of distant futures. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

Ladies, gentlemen. A wondrous thing has happened in Night Vale. I will admit that before today, I was in no fit state to properly report on it—between the crash of the mood-regulation system and the subsequent coffee shortage (the effects of which were likely exacerbated by the mental trauma incurred by mood-regulation), I am afraid I was incapable of properly conveying the single most important news item to have occurred in our town in the past month and a half.

StrexCorp is officially gone. Night Vale is an independent city once more, ruled by our mysterious, unison-speaking City Council who have at last returned from wherever they were for the past few months. Our businesses have been returned to their rightful owners—those who survived the corporate takeover—and our minds and emotions have been released from whatever strange biotechnological prison they were being kept in.

I would like to say, listeners, that I am sorry. I have, quite literally, not been myself. Many of the things I said in previous broadcasts were likely false. I have not yet had the opportunity to listen through all of them so that we can issue corrections, but rest assured that they are coming.

As for whom we have to thank for uprooting that fungoid blight of a corporation from our dry and dusty soil, it is, in fact, Aperture Laboratories.

Now, don't get me wrong, they aren't, strictly speaking, the heroes of the day. They do murder innocent people with alarming regularity for a place that is purely interested in science, but we must admit that they are, at least, better than StrexCorp, who murdered innocent, guilty, morally ambiguous, corporeally unclear, physically disabled, constitutionally vaporous, and even scientifically minded people with indiscriminate glee and no clear pattern, so that it was very difficult to get used to, and also took a much larger chunk out of our population. Fortunately, in this case at least, the director of Aperture Laboratories seemed perfectly happy to murder these clearly non-innocent people, and so gassed them all to death in an uncomfortably small room deep beneath the Aperture facility. I was told by a reliable Aperture employee that the chamber was subsequently filled with other raw sewage. It seems as though the director of Aperture likes being bought up by a cavalcade of semi-human slugs even less than we do.

Do be warned, listeners: Aperture are not our saviors. They are an evil laboratory run by a homicidal AI whose sole goal in life is to run human beings through gauntlets of tests until they die. Night Vale citizens have been allowed to return from the testing tracks after only a few months of testing due to the heroic intercession of Carlos, our community's resident android and recently hired Aperture scientist. The natural Night Valean immunity to neurotoxin seems to be helping, as well.

You may remember—I do not know if you do—that Carlos used to be completely human. Apparently, before he was unceremoniously murdered by StrexCorp employees, the AI in charge of Aperture Labs had copied his brain onto a hard disk, admiring his passion for and knowledge of all things science. This seems like an odd choice, considering that Carlos, shortly before that, viciously killed the android avatar of that particular Aperture AI who happens to run the entire facility. But it's not for me to say whether this was a sensible decision or not—I'm certainly glad it happened the way it did.

It was through a very odd—and very long—series of coincidences that Carlos ended up as our station's new operating system. I can't go into it all right now, but I'm sure you know how it is, listeners. One minute you're being shot in the back, next thing you know—you're a computerized version of yourself and you're running the local radio station you used to love so much and helping to organize the insect collection and having movie nights with the radio host and building yourself an android body so you can hold hands with him and shutting down mood-regulation so he can have free will because you think that will make you happy, but then it turns out that the radio host is a real jerk and yells at you for things that aren't your fault and refuses to listen when you try to explain about StrexCorp and calls you really offensive names, and maybe it was just because the coffee was gone or maybe he was still a little brain-damaged from the sudden shut-down of mood-regulation but it doesn't really matter because nothing excuses that kind of name-calling even if you did call him a lead-tongued moron with a serious coffee addiction and a truly disgusting disregard for human life, even if you did tell him that the meat-sack he chose to walk around in was more deserving of the pleasant and non-confrontational mind of a sea-slug, even if you did say you wished he was back under mood-regulation because even though it made him into a complacent idiot it at least made him into a cheerful, pleasant, attentive complacent idiot who listened to what other people had to say—even if you said all those things, I'm sure he wouldn't be angry anymore or hold any of it against you and in fact would forgive everything if you would just please, please call him back. . . .

Oh, I'm such an idiot. . . .

Listeners, I really didn't want to bring this up on the air, but I just . . . I can't keep it in anymore. I hate to have to say it out loud, but maybe some good will come of it, in the end.

Carlos and I . . . well, we had a fight. I don't even really remember what it was about—maybe StrexCorp, or something like that. It doesn't really matter, anyway. The point is, I said a lot of things I didn't mean, and he said a lot of things that I really, really hope he didn't mean, and . . . we haven't really spoken since. It was two days ago, and I don't really know what to do. I want to apologize to him, but . . . what if he doesn't want to hear from me at all? What if trying to say anything will only make it worse? I wouldn't be surprised. I'd be heartbroken. I'd be distraught. But I wouldn't be surprised. After everything I said . . . I wouldn't be surprised.

I doubt he's listening but . . . Carlos? I am so, so sorry. I am sorry I got angry with you. I am sorry I yelled. I am sorry for everything that I said. I was completely in the wrong. You were right. StrexCorp was a bad thing, and I didn't understand. Steve Carlsburg explained everything to me. That's how sorry I am, Carlos. That's how much I admit I was wrong—I went and found Steve Carlsburg and had a conversation with him and didn't interrupt once while he explained everything that happened since we took the station back. I didn't even make fun of his stupid tin-foil hat or his poorly kept apartment. You were absolutely, completely right, and I am very very sorry.

And . . . I love you. Right here in front of all these listeners: I love you very, very much. And I understand if you don't want to keep doing this whole relationship thing, or if you don't even want to talk to me anymore. Just . . . let me know one way or the other, okay? I won't try to change your mind. I'll listen, and I'll accept whatever you decide. I promise. Just . . . text me, or something. Please.

Ahem. Sorry, listeners. I just . . . had to give it a shot, you know? Just in case. I'll keep you all posted if anything changes.

So now, an editorial from the Woman from the Sand Wastes.

"Hello, Night Vale. I am called Chell. Probably you will know me as Woman from Sand Wastes, maybe even as Woman From Aperture. I am not these things. I am Chell, and this is all. I write this for Cecil to play on his radio show, because I think you will all listen.

Do you people completely lose your minds? Are you blind? Why you continue to send your friends and family to Aperture? Why do you tolerate this slaughterhouse to exist? You do not think it is wrong that so many will die?

Aperture is evil place, and GLaDOS is evil thing. I do not know how poor Carlos told her not to kill, but she will not listen very long. I know these things. I have been there, I have seen. There is nothing of humanity left in this creature, nothing of mercy or of pity. She is cruel and evil thing and you must not let her stay. When you will come to realize this, I will stay to help with the destruction of her.

Away from that, who put Wheatley into little dog? You should not let him run around by himself. He will get into trouble. At least you will always keep a leash on him. And tell him to stop saying all of the apologies to me. I am very tired of telling him I forgive. Also, good job you who made cute little dog-body. Is very good. You should be very proud. I am glad Wheatley finds so good a friend here in Night Vale.

So, that is all I have. When Aperture becomes very crazy-evil I will still be here to rescue strange little town. Do svidaniya."

Oh. Carlos texted me. He's coming over to talk. That's all it says, just, "We need to talk. I'll be there soon."

That doesn't sound good, does it, listeners. I'm afraid this may well be the end of Carlos and Cecil. That wonderful, lovely little 'and' is soon to be buried, I fear. We will just be . . . Carlos. Cecil. Separate. Very, very, tragically separate.

But I will be strong. I promised I would not argue or try to change his mind. I promised I would listen. And I will. I will listen with every last straining thread of my attention, just in case this is the last time I ever get to hear him speak with the 'and' between us. I will remember every word. I will remember every inflection, every gesture, every movement of his beautifully made synthetic brown eyes that, through some kind of technological wizardry, are almost exactly the same color as his real human eyes were. I will remember the oil and copper smell of his wiring. I will remember the very slight electric hum in his voice. I will remember these things, and then I will bury them under the dust of my withered heart and I will try to forget them. And I will not succeed. And I will be glad and I will hate myself, both in equal measure, because I will not forget these things, not ever. I will always want to remember them because it will remind me that at the very least I can still feel pain. I will never wish to not feel pain. I have lived without pain, and this is what it bought me.

Nevertheless, listeners. Nevertheless. I will listen, and I will hope, and I will likely pray, although I do not know to whom. But mostly I will listen, and I will say nothing, and I will never, ever let myself forget how much I love him.

And now, right now, I will give you . . . the weather.

Well, I suppose, it being close to closing time, I'd better wrap things up here.

We've gotten word from the Mayor's office that Marcus Vansten is stepping down as Mayor. He is ceding the post to his runner-up, the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home, as she was the only other survivor of the mayoral race. She currently has plans to rebuild the downtown sector where the meteor fell, although she has no plans to ever actually be seen by anyone. At the press conference, she answered reporters' questions by speaking directly into their ears from a space just slightly behind them. We still don't know what she looks like, but we all agree that her plans for the city are good ones.

The sentient fire that has taken up bowling with the tiny army from beneath the pin return of Lane 5 at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, which recently bought and seems capable of leaving one of the few condos left scattered around town, has announced to anyone who would listen that it is happy to help us rebuild our community, since we have given it such a warm welcome. It is applying for the job of waste-management coordinator, a post that has stood empty since it was vacated in an immense hurry by Westin Packard after (well, technically during) the Great Night Vale Landfill Explosion of 1965.

Although many of the businesses in town are now without management, a surprising number of Night Vale citizens—usually former employees or family members—are stepping up to fill the roles. Staple establishments such as the White Sand Ice Cream Parlor, the Sunrise Car Wash on Oak Street, and Big Rico's Pizza are all slowly getting back into business after the tragic losses of their owners and managers.

Somewhat relatedly, Intern Jess has constructed a body for her metal ball. Aperture Labs have made it clear that they don't want the thing back, so Jess made it a little robot dog body so that it can get around town on its own. So if you see what appears to be a large metal dog with a single staring blue eye instead of a head, don't be alarmed—it's not a monstrosity, it's just Wheatley. Also, be sure not to listen to anything it says. It may be cuter now, but it's still a moron.

All over Night Vale, our community is slowly getting into the arduous process of rebuilding. And as for Carlos and I, we're . . . also rebuilding. It isn't going to be easy. With everything that's happened, both of us are still trying to puzzle out who we ourselves are, much less figuring out how to run a working relationship. But we're trying. And it's good to have help, sometimes. Carlos remembers a lot of things that I don't, and I remember a lot of things that he doesn't. I'm teaching him how to cook again. He's playing me old broadcasts that he has saved from before the fire. I'm helping him remember how to do things that aren't science. He's helping me remember how to do things that aren't radio. It isn't a perfect system; far from it. But it's working. And I think it's worth it. From what I remember, it's really, really worth it.

And it says something, doesn't it, that we fell in love again? That even after all that happened to each of us, after the mutilations of our personalities, minds, and in one or two cases bodies, that when brought back together, we instantly fell in love, again? That must count for something. It isn't going to be easy, piecing our lives back together, but . . . well, nothing worth having is ever easy to get, is it? We learned that last time with the coffee. And I'm beginning to think that, as much as I need coffee to live, I think I need Carlos more. I think that if I'm ever going to really be Cecil again, it'll have to be as, well, half of Cecil and Carlos. Because I think that's the closest to the truth I can ever get. And maybe, if I try to be the Cecil he remembers, I'll end up much, much better than the real Cecil I was. I think that is how Carlos and I define each other. I think that is how it is meant to be. I think we both want to be the person the other thinks we are. And I think that is the most anyone can hope for.

Stay tuned next for the rest of your lives, beginning the moment you arbitrarily choose as a starting point.

I myself have a life to collect and piece together, a life to resume even as it is reconstructed. A life to rebuild. And if, by some chance, only half of the pieces of my life are left, maybe only half of Carlos's are left, too, and by putting all of our pieces together, we can build one good, sturdy, beautiful life. Better than either was before.

It is, at least, something to hope for. May you all have such bright and beautiful hopes in your lives. Good night, Night Vale. Good night.