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His name is Erika now.
He used to have a different name, one that was his and his alone – a big name that everyone knew, one everyone envied and loved in equal measure. A name on everything he owned, which was everything he could see and touch. Or at the very least, that was true for a while, till the one figure more powerful than he took over.
But that was a different lifetime – his name is Erika now. He’s not even a he anymore, he supposes; angels don’t hear gender, let alone see or feel it. What he is now is very different from what he once was.
He still fights for his people. He’d tried to take up a position of political power not because he could, he with all the money and power in the world, but because his was a city he loved and a man with that much power already surely would be able to work wonders once he had control over the town. It was never a ploy for a brief stint of more power to do as he pleased, of the absolute control to take matters into his own selfish hands. It was an attempt to be anything but selfish, to take care of his own. And once the smiling god began to loom, it was more imperative than ever that he do something to help.
And in the end, it was the fight he put up that determined his fate. Someone like him was needed sorely in a grand and cosmic war and for it he wept on air before leaving his life for good. Tears were not shed out of sadness, but rather, out of pride and awe, and now here he was. He was Erika, and he had all he ever wanted – to fight for his people.
He was the one that saw out the radio host’s return – the voice of his people was making his homecoming at long last, and he couldn’t be prouder. So as the host approached the light house they both had come to know so well, he couldn’t help but follow.
He takes it upon himself to bring wrath down upon the two vile replacements. It burns at the back of his mind, a white hot reminder he’ll never be able to shake – these are your enemies, from one life to the next. They always have been, and they always will.
These are the beasts who wrought destruction on a town he loved so dearly – or at the very least, the messengers of the smiling gods who did so. These are the imposters whose lies and manipulations spilled from their tongues like black ichor, flowing freely into a microphone that, in some way or another, touched the ears of everyone in town. These were the replacements for an orator cherished dearly, a voice like honey-colored coals and a love for his people fiercer than Erika’s. Fiercer than every Erika’s, but in particular, the one who now loomed over the charlatans.
Given the option, he’d have raised all hell on them. Figuratively, of course; in reality, he’d have brought down the wrath of heaven, burned out their souls and shown them what was opposing their smiling god. But that was a task for another time. The task at hand was to watch over the voice of Night Vale – and that was exactly what he did.
He’s proud of himself – he’s proud of all his brethren, and more importantly, proud of all the people of the town he watches over and has come to love so dearly. Such a firmly executed revolution will have their home back in no time, and with luck, the smiling god will be no more. He’s proud that he helped in that.
His name is Erika now. And he loves this town with every fiber of his dangerous, dangerous being.