Chapter Text
Cecil sits in front of his mic, turning on his equipment once more, starting up his broadcast for the thousandth time.
“Does a tree make a sound when no one is around? Does the sun still beat down on the desert when its community is gone? Sources are saying, sadly, yes. Welcome to Night Vale.” The Radio Host says, the familiar words still bitter sweet in his mouth.
“Hello Listeners. Or Listener. Or no one. The proof seems overwhelming to point towards there being no one listening to my broadcasts.
If there was someone listening to me, someone still out there in this great desert, I would have hoped they would have made the journey to come and save me by now, but alas, I’m still in my radio station, broadcasting in an abandoned town, using a radio tower that is miraculously still working, even after years of going without service.
Yet I still broadcast in the hopes that someone will find me.
It’s foolish of me, I know.
But it’s a comforting habit to talk to you, my dear Listener, whoever and however many you might be.”
Cecil shifts in his seat, before focusing his thoughts on the next segment of his radio show.
“Now, for the Community Calendar.
Tuesday we are all scheduled to scavenge the offices in the radio station to check, again, that there is nothing useful left that has yet to decompose, or find a new purpose. ‘We’ and ‘All’ referring to only me, of course.
Wednesday is the tri-monthly patrol of the Glow Cloud, all hail, who has been stalking this lonesome desert since shortly after… it happened. It’s always nice to see a familiar face, or cloud, around, though.
Thursdays never have anything going on. Those days are quiet. Peaceful.
Friday is the annual Morn Everyone You’ve Ever Lost Day. This year, like all the previous ones in recent memory, will be full of many sobs, great wailing, and general pleas to see family, friends, and any other loved ones, or even really anyone else besides a glowing cloud that drops dead animals everywhere, again. A lovely holiday indeed.
Saturday the local cacti are gathering where City Hall used to be. I would join them, but I’m stuck in my booth, and the first couple of levels of this station are buried in sand.
Sunday you may be able to see the sunset. It tries it’s best to be more timely on Sundays, for some reason. We appreciate you sun, thank you for doing your best.
And finally, on Monday we have a bowling tournament, where I try to reenact the ones I used to go to with my old bowling league.
This has been the Community Calendar.”
The Voice readjusts his mic, bringing it closer.
“You know, Listeners, sometimes I wonder if this equipment is still even working.
I don’t actually have a radio in here, I can’t check. For all I know, the microphone could be unplugged, and all that’s being put out is dead air.
But you’ve heard me raise that question enough times already, so this isn’t news to you.
What is news is that the sand dunes have moved again, revealing the roofs of buildings long thought to have been destroyed. They’re corroded by the sand, nothing like they used to look like, but still, they carry a familiarity to them.
The same familiarity as the hot desert sun beating down, reflecting off the sandy wasteland. Not something I necessarily am thrilled with, but not fully a bad thing either.
I mean, if the sun disappeared again, we’d all be in big trouble.”
Cecil lets out a choked, nervous laugh, the sound ringing through his booth for a few moments, before he coughs, clearing his throat, and moving on.
“I would love to do an ad read for you, my dearest Listeners, but, since there are no longer any businesses in Night Vale, I’m afraid that isn’t currently possible.
So, let’s go to traffic!
There used to be a man.
He walked the Scrublands as if they were the path to his porch steps.
He wandered the Sand Wastes like they were his garden.
He paced through the dusty, desolate desert as though it could give him all the answers he ever desired.
He used to swear he could read the tiny beads of glass, the rocks and pebbles.
He promised he saw the future in the sands.
Few believed him, but there were some. There were certainly some.
But then there was a dust storm.
It didn’t cause any damage.
Never even reached civilization.
But it hit him.
Swept him up.
When it dissipated, there was no sign of him.
Some thought it took him to heaven.
Some said he was a desert spirit, and that was simply him returning home.
Others, however, theorized that he simply went further into the desert.
But no one ever looked for him, and now we will never know his fate.
That, was traffic.”
The Radio Host’s hands find his control board, and his fingers hover over the buttons.
“Now, I think it’s time for The Weather.”