Chapter Text
[INTRO – CAMERAMAN'S POV – STUDIO 666 NEWS]
[The screen fades in from black. We see through the lens of a handheld studio camera. Slight distortion at the edges, faint scratches on the glass. It’s handheld—subtly shaky. Someone’s holding it. Someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.]
The 666 News studio is garish as ever: velvet red carpeting sticky from spilled coffee and what might be blood, stage lights dangling dangerously from rusted scaffolds, and the ever-present buzz of hellish electronics humming like a swarm. The smell is part ozone, part sulfur, and the overwhelming chemical sweetness of Katie’s perfume—so aggressive it could double as a weapon.
The camera pans slightly. There’s Katie Killjoy at the desk, lacquered and furious. A tall, bony demon with a neck like a swan’s and posture like a loaded gun, her pristine bob haircut flaring like a warning signal. Rose-pink sclerae glint around pinpoint white pupils, glaring like they’ve been personally wronged by the concept of breathing.
She clutches her clipboard like it personally insulted her taste in shoes.
Tom Trench, beside her, lounges in his suit, gas-mask face unreadable save for the smug smirk in his voice. His blonde hair is swept back like he’s trying too hard to look casual, and his crimson tie is just a shade too neat to be sincere.
KATIE KILLJOY: (smiling thinly) Welcome back to 666 News, where the damnation is eternal and the news never stops because we’re contractually forbidden from dying. I’m Katie Killjoy. If you're still alive out there... I regret to inform you.
TOM TRENCH: (grinning) And I’m Tom Trench! Your friendly neighborhood optimist with another reminder that we’re all doomed—but hey, at least we’ve got weather.
KATIE: (eye twitching) It's smog and ash, Tom. Every day. Always has been. Always will be.
[The camera zooms slightly. Not enough to be noticed by anyone on set, but enough to capture the gleam of sweat starting to form on Katie’s temple. She knows something’s wrong. She just doesn’t know what yet.]
KATIE: (forced chuckle) Moving on—Heaven’s annual extermination is just three weeks away. That’s right, folks, the skies are going to rain down judgment and fire, and if you’re not hiding under a blessed rock, well—
[CRRRRZZZZZT. Static crawls through the feed. A chittering sound creeps in. Soft. Subtle. Like teeth clicking in anticipation. The lights flicker once. Twice. Then total blackout.]
EMPLOYEE (off screen): (panicked) What the hell—?!
[The camera holds steady. Through its infrared backup mode, outlines shimmer in bone-white. Tiny shapes dart across the floor. Claws clicking. Something brushes past the cameraman’s leg. He doesn’t flinch.]
KATIE: (snarling) Someone get the damn lights back on! I swear if this is another intern messing with the fuse box, I will rip out your—
[The lights blast back to life. The set is a disaster.]
Katie’s desk is flipped. Her clipboard is nailed to the wall with a comically large femur. Her perfectly-sculpted bob is now a jagged mess, hacked to pieces with brutal creativity. One side of her hair is shorter than the other. The streaks are now patchy. She looks like she lost a turf war to hedge clippers.
KATIE: (screaming) MY HAIR! WHO TOUCHED MY HAIR!?
Tom is gone.
The camera pans quickly to the shattered studio window. Far below, in the alleyway dumpster, a familiar voice groans:
TOM: (distant, muffled) I think I landed on something squishy... and alive...
[The camera returns to the chaos inside. A dozen Toofs swarm the background, scampering across lights, chewing through wires, rearranging cue cards to spell "666 SNOOZE."]
Katie, red-faced with wrath, tries to swat them off with one of her heels. It’s not going well. One Toof flips her off while chewing her pearl choker. Another poses atop her broken desk, draped in her mic cable like a victory sash.
[The lens zooms in again, catching Katie’s rage as she screams into the void. Her eyes twitch. Her lipstick’s smudged. She looks ready to declare war.]
[The camera shakes—barely perceptible. The sound of bones rattling. A low, rising cackle.]
[The cameraman laughs. It starts soft, then grows—a dry, hollow bone-deep laugh, echoing inside an empty ribcage. The view tilts, watching Katie descend into furious chaos, and zooms once more—like someone savoring the moment.]
[Fade to black.]
"This broadcast was BONED. Brought to you by The Boning Cave. See you next prank, Skinbags."