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Carlos doesn't know where the portal came from, but he knows that it isn't his fault. He's not even allowed to feed the lab rats, let alone tamper with anything that could cause an inter-dimensional rift. At least, he assumes it's an inter-dimensional rift. He hasn't gone through yet.
It gapes at him, an absence of light. If he listens closely he can hear a faint humming which reminds him of his own insignificance in the incomprehensible vastness of the universe. He wonders if he should alert someone in charge.
In the end, he decides to leave it alone. After all, it's not doing any harm, and his supervisors would probably be very angry to find out that a humming portal appeared in Carlos's cubicle. And it will probably go away on its own. Besides, Carlos has papers to grade.
He's a TA, overworked and underpaid – they're not his papers; he didn't assign them, and frankly he thinks they're useless and boring, but the students need to learn to write proper lab reports somehow. He can think of better things to study than hand-washing habits, is all.
After a stack of botched reports, his eyelids begin to droop.
Intern Chad has just informed me that we're expecting a visitor to our lovely desert community!
At first he thinks he's dozed off, but then he blinks several times, massages his temples, and the portal is still talking. It's faint and staticky but definitely happening. Carlos sighs. Can't this wait? He has work to do.
“Hello?” He calls, exasperated, stepping around his desk. The portal doesn't appear to hear him.
It says here that – oh, jeez. Ugh. The city council has elected that he be escorted by the Apache Tracker, who listeners might remember as that white guy with the–
Something grabs Carlos's arm. He screams.
A hand. A slightly tan, masculine hand, nails painted black, protruding from the portal.
“Help!” Carlos yells. He doesn't care if he gets in trouble with his supervisors, or the dean or anybody else. “Somebody! There's – hnng!”
He's wrenched forward. He digs his heels into the fraying carpet, but there's no traction, no handhold; he gropes impotently toward the desk. He's slipping. The humming intensifies, and he's having a hard time resisting the hand's inexorable pull because his life is utterly meaningless in the cosmic scheme of things–
A flash of white light.
Except it's less of a flash and more of a steady pulse – no, scratch that, it's just light, and it's exacerbating the killer migraine he's been working on for the past three hours.
At first he thinks he's in some sort of wormhole between dimensions, because that's what sci-fi movies have assured him waits within portals, but upon closer inspection – that is, a lot of rubbing his eyes and groaning – it turns out to be a desert. This is slightly unusual, considering Carlos lives in Massachusetts.
The hand is attached to a man – at least, he thinks it's a man; it's hard to tell because he's silhouetted by the blinding sun. He pulls Carlos to his feet.
“How,” says the man, holding up his unoccupied hand.
Carlos frowns, shielding his eyes. “I don't know? The portal just opened up in my–”
“How is greeting. You have arrived.”
After an awkward pause, he shakes his hand free of the man's iron grip and wipes his sweaty palm on his khakis. The sun beats down on him, and his sensible sweater vest no longer seems so sensible.
“I think there's been some sort of mistake,” he says, fumbling for the hair tie on his wrist. He has to get all these sweaty curls off his neck before he dies of heat stroke; he knew he shouldn't have canceled that haircut to come in for – oh, who is he kidding. He can't miss work. He's missing work right now. He's going to get fired.
The man shakes his head. “No mistake. I am Apache Tracker. You are Carlos The Scientist.”
“Oh, well, I'm not exactly a scientist yet, more of a temp–” he steps to the side, and with the sun finally out of his eyes, he can make out the figure before him. His jaw snaps shut. He pushes his glasses up his nose.
The “Apache Tracker” is a white guy wearing a comically racist approximation of a Native American headdress. He's adorned in some sort of stupid tribal paint that Carlos thinks is more Caribbean than Native American, but that's obviously not what he's going for (he's calling himself the Apache Tracker, for christ's sake.) He has on a ridiculous loincloth that was probably made out of scraps from the Salvation Army or something; God, this is really offensive, and Carlos is Cuban.
“Come,” says the Apache Tracker, motioning for Carlos to follow. “We prepare for ceremony.”
“Ceremony?” Carlos whirls around frantically, searching for the portal, which is nowhere in sight. “You definitely have the wrong person. I need to get back to my office; I have papers to grade.”
The Apache Tracker sighs and rolls his eyes, looking distinctly middle-class and still very, very caucasian. A black helicopter circles overhead. “Look,” the Apache Tracker says. “Everybody's waiting on you, and you're not gonna get home if you don't participate, so just suck it up.”
Carlos opens his mouth to tell this guy off, but is cut off by the sound of the helicopter descending, accompanied by the faint shriek of predatory birds in the distance, growing deafening in mere seconds. He shouts several obscenities over the noise. Nobody seems to hear him, but it makes Carlos feel better.
~
Follow your dreams. They're getting away. You knew you couldn't keep them handcuffed to the radiator forever. Welcome to Night Vale.
Listeners, today is a special day. I'm currently broadcasting live from Night Vale Stadium, which is being used for the first time since our annual Parade of the Hooded Figures. Incidentally, this is the first time I've been allowed out of my broadcasting booth at the station in, oh, maybe three weeks. I've lost count. The sun is bright, listeners, and it shines on all of us, a life-giving, life-stealing ball of radiation, burning our skin and our corneas.
We are gathered here to welcome a newcomer to our little desert community. From my box above the stadium, I can see all of your smiling faces. There's Michael Sandero, starting quarterback for the Night Vale Scorpions, and both his faces are smiling. Hello, Michael!
In the crowd, someone shouts, “Hello, Cecil!”
Listeners, if you are not already at Night Vale Stadium to celebrate this landmark event, please, stay where you are. The sheriff’s secret police will find you.
Carlos has no idea what's he's doing, but now he's doing it in a lab coat. They gave it to him despite his insistence that he was only a TA – “they” being several men in suits speaking in unison – and insisted that it was ceremonial garb.
This stadium is reminiscent of the Colosseum, mostly because there are several empty cages outside of the entrance in which Carlos waits. Behind him, a man wearing a short cape, blowdart chest belt, and tight leather balaclava prods him toward a menacing iron door.
Here he comes, ladies and gentlemen, Night Vale's very first scientist!
Behind the door, the crowd cheers – sort of; he also hears some terrified screaming, mechanical screeching, and deep chanting in a long-dead language. The door swings open of its own accord, slowly, dramatically. Trumpets bellow what sounds like an instrumental version of the Happy Days theme song.
Carlos is thrust through the doors, and before he has the chance to turn around they slam shut behind him. He's suddenly facing a giant image of his own face on a jumbotron so large that it probably interferes with any sports played in this stadium, if they do indeed have sports here. Giant Carlos looks terrified.
There is an audible gasp over the loudspeakers. A pause, the crinkle of a plastic water bottle.
Forgive me listeners, I – I've just never seen someone so beautiful before.
Carlos frowns. The announcer can't possibly be talking about him. Nobody's ever called him beautiful – people have called him lots of things before assigning him mundane and tedious tasks which don't seem to further the scientific community's understanding of literally anything; none of them were “beautiful.”
Carlos, the announcer says. What a lovely name. Carrrrlos. Caaarlooos. Wow. I encourage you all to direct your attention to the screen. Examine those gorgeous brown eyes, that flawless skin, that flowing hair as dark as the endless void slowly consuming our fragile planet.
To Carlos's horror, whatever unseen device is broadcasting his face onto the screen begins zooming in on various facial features. He stands, fists clenched defensively at his sides, as an image of his eye fills the jumbotron, towering above the grandstands. He doesn't think he's ever been more uncomfortable in his entire life.
Oh, listeners, as much as I would love to stop the proceedings and further bask in our scientist's masculine charm, the fax machine is reportedly attacking guards, and the show must go on. And so I welcome you, ladies and gentlemen, to Night Vale's very first Trials of Science Ceremony! In this ceremony, Carlos will face three tasks to prove that he possesses the three qualities of an effective scientist. If he succeeds, he will become our town's resident scientist and will be provided with a team of assistants conjured through a combination of dark magic and synergistic, positive thinking. And if he fails... well, we all know he's not going to fail, but if he does, it's just the usual, y'know, erasure from the past, present, and all memory, living or otherwise. But don't worry, Carlos, I'm sure you'll do just fine.
It takes a few moments for the word erasure to even sink in – he's still stuck on the necromantic assistants thing – but when it does, it doesn't bring about the mortal panic he's expecting. This place must be getting to him.
The first task will test the third most important quality of effective scientists, as decided by the city council: natural resistance to high levels of radiation!
Carlos's face drains of all color – he's about to try screaming something when the sound of shuffling papers fills his ears, and the voice – Cecil, apparently – says:
I'm sorry, a correction: it is elementary school teachers who must be immune to radiation. The first Quality of effective scientists is ingenuity. Bring out the fax machine!
There is a great yowling, like the sound a predatory cat makes on the edge of death, and the doors on the opposite side of the stadium swing open. From the blackness emerge two figures with no discernible faces, dragging between them what appears to be a ball of flame on an electronics cart. They bring it within ten feet of Carlos – even at that distance, their faces, though present, remain entirely unmemorable and, indeed, unknowable. Flaming cart deposited, they retreat, staring at Carlos with their existent, unremarkable eyes.
Carlooos, says the voice, turning his name into four excited syllables, your first task is to repair the Night Vale Community Radio station's fax machine. It's been on the fritz for a while now.
On the fritz. It's on fire.
“Don't I get any tools?” Carlos shouts. Immediately, several members of the crowd repeat his question, until the entire stadium is chanting don't I get any tools? It's terrifying but effective. The loudspeaker broadcasts the sound of shuffling papers.
Um, it doesn't say anything about tools. Sorry, Carlos.
He considers asking for water to put out the fire, at least, but doesn't want the crowd repeating him again. Besides, that might be cheating, and cheating will probably get him erased. Carlos is a quick learner, and he's learned that the rules of physics (and most other rules) don't seem to apply here, in Night Vale, wherever that is, and therefore erasure seems entirely possible.
The stands are eerily silent – far quieter than a packed stadium should be, even when waiting in anticipation. It's inhuman. All the attention is on Carlos. He pushes his glasses up his nose. Better get on with it, he supposes.
Carlos is studying microbiology, not electronics, but he's faced a few malfunctioning devices in his time; granted, none of them have been on fire without any discernible fuel source, but turning it off and back on again still seems like a good first step. He approaches the fax machine. To his surprise, the fire doesn't actually seem to be hot. Tentatively, he extends a hand toward the machine.
The sleeve of his lab coat catches fire.
He reflexively yanks his arm away, but then realizes he's not in excruciating pain. Or any pain, really. Fascinated, he examines the fire. It doesn't seem to be consuming or even charring the sleeve, and even though it looks like normal fire, it's about room temperature. And it's... bored. Carlos isn't sure how he can sense that, but he can. The fire is definitely bored.
Again he reaches for the off switch – the device does appear to be a normal fax machine, aside from being on fire, and the off switch is exactly where he expects it to be. He flips it off, waits a few seconds, and flips it on again. Nothing happens.
Carlos bites his lip and accidentally glances up at the screen, which shows him biting his lip in high definition. He quickly looks away.
Next he searches for the plug, which is hanging off the back of the machine, where it should be, and isn't plugged into anything. That gives him a spark of hope. There are sockets on the cart, even though the cart itself doesn't seem to be connected to any power source. It's worth a shot.
Plugged in, however, the machine doesn't do anything but flame. No lights, no readout, nothing. Carlos sighs. In a few seconds, the entire crowd is sighing. The loudspeaker clicks on.
Don't give up, Carlos. I believe in you! Against all odds, Carlos feels momentarily better – that is, until Cecil continues: I believe you exist in this plane. I believe the abstract concept of Carlos does indeed hold meaning, and that meaning is beautiful and perfect.
Carlos frowns, careful not to make any more audible sounds lest the audience echo them back. That's really distracting. He mashes some buttons; nothing seems to do anything. The machine just sits there, mocking him. Literally mocking him. He can feel it.
“Well screw you,” Carlos growls.
“Screw you!” The audience repeats enthusiastically. There are so many voices, it's almost deafening. Carlos grits his teeth. This is stupid. He wants to go home.
Frustrated, he kicks the cart as hard as he can – except, the cart doesn't budge, even though it has wheels. Carlos reels, clutching his throbbing left foot.
Laughter.
Not from the audience, definitely not Cecil on the loudspeaker. It's – Carlos throws his hands up in annoyance – it's the fire. The fire is laughing at him.
Against all logical reason, Carlos kicks the cart again, hard enough to knock himself backwards onto the ground. The fire cackles at him, raucous laughter that Carlos seriously hopes everybody else can hear. If he were to look at the jumbotron, Carlos is positive his face would be bright red with anger. But he doesn't. He steps back a few feet, ready to bodily attack this stupid hunk of plastic, when there's a loud whir. Lights flash on the console in places Carlos is pretty sure there aren't actually any lights to flash. There's a piercing whine, and then something comes flying at Carlos's face. He ducks just in time.
The crowd erupts in applause, clicking, and excited chanting. The loudspeaker crackles to life halfway through a sentence.
–done, Carlos; well done! I knew you could do it!
Confused, Carlos approaches the projectile, now lying motionless about fifty yards behind him. He gingerly picks it up. It's a small whittled duck, made out of something that he's pretty sure is obsidian. And this was... supposed to happen?
Our scientist has completed the first task!
The “fax machine” is still on fire. Apparently the fire was not the problem.
Tell us, Carlos, says Cecil, as if reading his mind – actually, that's not much of a stretch. What was the problem?
“Um,” says Carlos. Um, says the crowd. He furrows his brow. “I think it was bored.” I think it was bored, the stadium booms. The town's joy is almost palpable. Carlos can't help but smile. This place is creepy, yes, but also rather endearing.
Just when his anxiety has begun to subside, the doors beneath the screen swing open once again. There are no unknowable figures this time, but there are beakers. A lot of beakers.
Exactly seventy-four beakers, Cecil informs the audience. All poisoned but one!
And okay, that's horrifying, but at least it's science. If they give Carlos some equipment this time, he ought to be able to test their chemical makeup. The beakers hover toward him, unsupported about three feet off the ground, in military-straight lines. They stop a few feet away from Carlos and stare him down. Each is filled with a brightly-colored liquid; some look more... organic than others. Carlos shudders.
This second task will test our scientist's courage, which is absolutely essential for any researcher. Now listeners, I know most of you know how this test works, since the same test was administered to randomly-selected citizens during last year's Vague-Yet-Menacing-Government-Agent Convention and Raffle, but for Carlos's benefit, and the benefit of those who have been re-educated since the conference, allow me to explain: Carlos will have thirty seconds to choose one beaker to drink. And... that's it. That is the test. Please direct your attention to the timer on the screen. Are you ready, Carlos?
“What? No! Cecil, no!” He bellows, but the crowd is too busy cheering to repeat him.
And... begin!
The timer begins counting down from thirty; the crowd howls; Carlos panics. This is impossible! If he refuses, he'll be erased from history, but if he drinks a beaker, he has a one in seventy-four chance of surviving.
Then the beakers start moving.
They shuffle around each other like cups in a street game, moving so fast that the colors almost blur together. Carlos isn't sure he could grab one if he tried.
Twenty seconds, Cecil announces. You can do it, Carlos!
Carlos can't do it. Carlos is going to die, and he wonders which would be more painful, poisoning or erasure. He stands frozen as the seconds tick by and the beakers whiz around in midair. He can't do this.
Ten seconds. Carlos, come on; just pick one! There's a twinge of panic in Cecil's voice, apparent even over the loudspeakers.
Five seconds.
Carlos! Please!
He's not sure why he does it, but before he knows it he's snatched a beaker out of midair and downed it in two large gulps. It all happens so fast; all he registers is the faint taste of burnt toast and then there's a loud buzz. The timer stops with two seconds on the clock. As the crowd cheers, Carlos sinks to his knees and prepares to die.
Excellent! Great job, Carlos! Now that you've demonstrated incredible courage, the test administrators would like me to read this announcement, and I quote: all of them were poisoned. Ha ha. Enjoy your poison, big shot. End quote. Once again, Night Vale congratulates you on your bravery.
He can feel it gurgling in his stomach already. His skin feels hot, pulsing, and he swears he can feel each individual capillary.
Any minute now.
He removes his hands from his head and glances up, and then gingerly stands. It seems to be a slow-acting poison.
“Uh, is it going to work?” Carlos asks aloud. The crowd repeats him to Cecil, who taps his microphone twice.
It's already taken effect, he says, mirth tinging his voice. Look at the screen.
Carlos looks, and it takes him a moment to recognize his own face. It's his face, alright, but it's entirely covered in little stickers. Cute stickers. He blinks.
There are cats, dogs, assorted small animals, happy ghosts, flowers, disembodied eyeballs – but they're cute disembodied eyeballs. Some stickers offer encouragement. One in the middle of his forehead informs the world that Carlos is, in fact, number one.
“This is the poison?” He shouts, incredulous and more than a little annoyed.
Mm-hmm, Cecil squeaks. Aren't they cool? Oh, you look fantastic!
Carlos shakes his head, trying to clear it, and then begins peeling off stickers as Cecil gushes about him. He can't believe this. He's glad to be alive, but seriously? This is stupid. This town is stupid. Cecil is stupid, and won't shut up about him.
We're all so proud of you. Ingenious, perfect Carlos, with his luscious, dark hair and his delicate dark skin, jawline like – a pause, and then, – just a moment, listeners, there appears to be something approaching my broadcast booth. Yes, that's definitely a–
A bellowing roar rings through the stadium, first over the loudspeaker, and then through the dry desert air, drawing inexorably, terribly nearer. A dark shape plummets from the broadcast tower. The crowd screams and howls and chants.
A dragon. It's a damned dragon, about three times Carlos's size – which is actually rather small for a dragon – clutching Cecil in its talons. He can tell it's Cecil because he's still talking, and, inexplicably, his voice is still being amplified.
L-listeners, it appears that in a surprising twist of events, I have been kidnapped by Alfred McDaniels, son of upstanding citizen and compelling blogger Hiram McDaniels! Say hello, Hiram!
In the crowd, a massive, five-headed dragon stands sheepishly. Carlos has no idea how he failed to notice a five-headed dragon in the crowd before.
“Alfie!” The dragon's heads say in unison, though his voice is nearly drowned out by the beating of wings and Cecil's amplified screaming. “Get down from there, Alfie, so help me!”
Alfie sticks out his lolling, foot-long tongue, and blows a raspberry.
This just in, Cecil says, voice calm and only slightly hoarse even after all that screaming. Intern Chad has just informed me through my headset that the city council has declared a change in today's agenda. Instead of the planned breakdancing competition, Carlos's final task will be to rescue me from certain death! Also, to the owner of the blue Honda Civic in the north lot, your headlights are on, and they are angry. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming. Cecil promptly resumes screaming.
“What am I supposed to do?” Carlos yells, but the crowd is too enthralled to repeat him. “Cecil!”
Carlooos! Cecil bellows, though Carlos doubts it's because he actually heard him. You look lovely from up here! The dragon flaps around above the stadium, so far up that he can't discern its talons from Cecil's torso. Hopefully that's because of the height and not because they've become one and the same.
Carlos can't fight a dragon. Carlos can't even replace the jug on the break room water cooler. Carlos isn't really good at anything but adhering to boring procedures and writing lab reports. Erasure can't be all that bad, he reasons. After all, it's not exactly death, is it? If he never existed in the first place, he can't face much pain in the present.
But this isn't just about him anymore. This is about Cecil, who is such an upstanding citizen that he continues to do his job even three hundred yards above the ground. Cecil, who is inexplicably in love with him. Cecil, whose voice makes his insides just a little bit tingly.
Carlos knows what he has to do.
He sprints toward the broadcast tower, only to find no visible entrance or exit save the broken window at the very top – but he was expecting that. He takes a deep breath, and hoists himself onto the improbably slippery metal framework. Carlos climbs.
He doesn't look down – he's seen enough cartoons to know what happens when you look down – instead focusing only on his next foothold, on breathing. Is the air getting thinner as he climbs? Probably. This is a very bad time for a panic attack. He counts backwards from one hundred as he ascends the tower.
Cecil screams terrified encouragement in the background, but Carlos can't really focus on that right now. He's almost to the top. There's the window, if he can just get a hand up – and then he has it, and shards of glass tear at his lab coat but he doesn't care because he's in; he's on solid ground; he's not dead yet.
Excellent idea, Cecil says hysterically. Maybe you can make it if you jump!
Carlos has no intention of jumping. He spots the microphone. To his relief, not only does it exist, but it also seems to be non-sentient and pretty similar to a normal microphone, aside from being mostly fuchsia. It has an on switch, and the on switch works. Carlos wants to cry in happiness.
“Can you hear me?” He asks, tapping it a few times.
Oh, yes! Cecil says. Carlos doesn't know how he's doing that without a microphone of his own, but he's not going to question it.
“Alfie, can you hear me? Do you mind if I call you Alfie?” He asks.
The dragon turns toward him, flapping its giant, leathery wings, and growls, “Whatever.”
Carlos clears his throat. God, he hates teenagers. “Alfie, could you please put Cecil down safely in the tower?”
“I dunno,” says the dragon. “What's in it for me?”
He racks his brain. What do dragons like? Gold? Or is that just a myth? Meat? Carlos swallows. Okay, what do teenagers like?
“I have an iPhone,” he says.
Alfie snorts. “What generation?”
Carlos scrambles for the phone in his pocket – which might have come in handy before this point had he remembered it. “Uh, 4S,” he says. “It has Siri?”
“Ugh,” huffs the dragon. “No thanks.”
He tries not to panic. What does he have that a dragon would like?
“Y'know,” Alfie says, digging his talons into Cecil's torso, just a little bit – Carlos can tell because Cecil makes a noise that sounds sort of like hnnngh. “I could just eat him.”
“No!” Carlos yelps. “N-no, what do you – what can I–”
An idea strikes him. A horrible, stupid idea, but it's the only one he's got, and Cecil's going to die if he doesn't do something right this second.
“You can eat one of my arms!” Carlos says.
The dragon growls inquisitively, like he's thinking it over. The stadium is silent save Cecil's pained, ridiculously amplified breathing.
“Make it a leg,” says the dragon.
Carlos swallows bile. A leg. That means no more walking; that means handicapped parking and prosthetics and months of healing and infection and pain and maybe death, depending on what the medical care is like here.
“A leg,” he agrees.
Carlos, no! Cecil screams, but the dragon is already flapping toward the broadcast tower, thrusting its meaty claws through the shattered window. It deposits Cecil in a bruised lump on the desk, knocking over stacks of papers, a cold cup of coffee, and the microphone, which is wrenched from its socket.
“Cecil!” He screams. Cecil looks up at him with three hooded eyes, two on his face and one on his forehead. His sweaty, snow-white hair clings to his forehead. He smiles weakly, revealing pointed little teeth and and a trickle of purplish blood. Carlos doesn't have time to gape.
“Hmm,” the dragon growls, poking its snout through the window. Its hot breath fills the studio.
Carlos quivers as it stares him down, but suddenly he's flooded with an odd sense of calm. Cecil is safe, and this is the price, and it's inevitable. He's not particularly afraid of physical pain anymore.
The dragon's enormous green eyes meet his, and it opens its fearsome maw.
“Nevermind; I don't like dark meat.”
It repels off the side of the tower and is across the stadium in an instant, then beyond, into the endless desert. A few moments later, a significantly larger dragon takes off from the stands and speeds off in the same direction, flinging several bystanders out of their seats in the process.
There is a moment of stillness, and then, without a sound, Carlos pulls a chair up to the desk upon which Cecil is now sitting.
Cecil blinks several times, which is rather unnerving because his third eye doesn't sync up with the other two, and says, “That was pretty racist.” His voice has returned to a normal volume.
“Was it?” Carlos asks absently. He genuinely doesn't know. “I'm alive.”
“You are,” Cecil confirms. “For now.”
It takes Carlos a moment to process the words, but when he does, he furrows his brow. “Was that a threat?”
Cecil shakes his head, smiling serenely. “No, just an inevitability. I hope we die simultaneously, Carlos.”
“Oh,” is all he can think to say. Though the crowd is still going wild, everything has taken on a gentle, muted tone. This is at least partially because the broadcast booth has sound insulation in it, but it's also because he's alive, and Cecil's alive, and Cecil is looking at him with an expression nobody's ever directed toward Carlos before. To think he was grading papers just hours ago.
The broadcast tower rocks.
“They'll break in and parade you through the town soon,” Cecil says. He's chewing on his lip, which is bleeding sluggishly, likely because evolution designed his teeth to slice through flesh.
Carlos doesn't have anything to say to that. He's past fearing for his life. Instead he looks at Cecil, who's skinny and probably in his late twenties, around Carlos's age, sickly pale, wearing garish purple and black checked suspenders and a matching bow tie. His nails are painted a sensible peach. Tattoos poke out of his sleeves, eyes and occult symbols and what appear to be tentacles, and Carlos is pretty sure they move when he looks away. He has no idea what to say to this guy.
He says, “Do I get to go home?”
Cecil tugs at his collar. “Do you want to go home?”
And Carlos thinks back to his cramped apartment, to his abusive supervisors, to the girl who left him last summer, and says, “Not really.”
Cecil visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping. Carlos is peripherally aware that he'd be at eye level with Cecil's belly button – assuming he has one, or was born at all – were he to look straight ahead. He's not going to ask Cecil to get off the table, though.
They try not to meet each other's eyes. The tower rocks. Bystanders are trying to climb it, but they keep falling back into the writhing mass of people.
“So, you rescued me,” says Cecil.
“Huh? Yeah,” says Carlos.
Cecil smiles shyly. “Well, you know what happens when the prince rescues the maiden, right?”
“You're not a maiden, Cecil,” he sighs. Cecil is kicking his feet, hands clasped behind his back. “Why – why are you all – ?”
“All what, Carlos?” Cecil says, cheeks glowing an ever-darkening purple.
“Ah.” He doesn't know what to say. “All in love with me, I guess?”
“Oh, I dunnooo,” Cecil says, smile threatening to consume his face.
“Well, it's a little weird.”
“It's okay, Carlos,” Cecil says. “We can take it slow. No need to get all symbiotic right away.”
Carlos hopes that's a metaphor.
“Can I maybe kiss you?” Cecil asks
Carlos furrows his brow. “Uh, no.”
The tower rocks.
“Maybe we could hold hands?” And Cecil is just so wide-eyed and pleading, twisting his hands together on his lap – Carlos has never really thought about another guy that way before, but he's also never met another guy with three eyes, never actually met anyone as interesting, scientifically or otherwise, as Cecil. Certainly nobody else has ever liked him as much as Cecil does, not any of his girlfriends or even his parents, probably, and at first he though Cecil was just making fun of him but now it's obvious that he's completely genuine. And that's amazing.
Carlos sighs and offers his hand.
“Oh,” Cecil gasps, grasping it with both of his, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality. Carlos can't help but smile.
Cecil squeezes, and says, ecstatic: “Neat!”
They're still holding hands when the helicopter arrives to rescue them, and when Carlos climbs onto the ceremonial float, towed by three very disgruntled, very large toads, Cecil only lets go on the condition that Carlos visit him at the radio station tomorrow. Carlos agrees.
In their office in the clouds, several members of the Sheriff's Secret Police Surveillance Team swoon. The town thrums with energy, warm and happy. Night Vale loves Carlos, and Carlos feels loved.