Evening was beginning in Night Vale. All over the desert town people were getting ready to leave their jobs and return to their homes, draw the shades, and try to have some form of food that didn't include wheat for dinner before another long night of pretending to sleep.
One man in particular was preparing to begin his work. Or at least, he should have been. Cecil lay in his bed under a rumpled blanket, fast asleep. A bottle of Advil lay on the nightstand, and used tissues lay around the room like motionless tumbleweeds. Jerked out of his drug induced sleep by his alarm clock, he sits up quickly, only moan loudly in pain as his body reminded him how sick he was. Sniffling furiously, trying to clear his sinuses which were more blocked up than route 800 during rush hour, he shakily sits up again and pulls back the covers. The LED screen of his clock glowed faintly, reminding him that his broadcast was due to start in twenty minutes.
Silently cursing the common cold, he stands up and locates his bath robe hanging on the back of the ensuite door, and slips it on, as well as the matching slippers. Sneezing suddenly, he wipes his already rubbed raw nose with a tissue out of the box on the counter by the sink. He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror and grimaces. Eyes clogged with sleep, nose clogged with mucus, head stuffed with cotton. He looked awful. Coughing, he tries a few lines to see what his voice sounds like.
"Hello listene-" he trails off into a fit of coughing. The coughs somehow sounded better than the shadow of his normally candy coated voice that now resided in his burning throat. Silently cursing, he goes back into the bedroom and sits down on his bed, glancing at the clock. Fifteen minutes.
Swearing, Cecil goes to the kitchen and picks up the phone to call in sick to the station. As he finishes dialling the area code, he stops, getting a better idea. The news had to get to the people, and if he couldn't do it, he knew who could. He hangs up, and dials another number.
Feet propped up on his desk and a newspaper over his face, Carlos is sleeping soundly in his office at the end of a long day of taking apart clocks. When the phone rings, he sits up, falling out of his chair and landing on his back on the ground, feet still up on the desk. The newspaper floats down gently onto his stomach. Standing up and dusting himself off, he checks the display on the phone to see who's calling. Of course he has call display, it's the 21st century after all. Seeing the name 'Cecil', he picks up.
"Hello Cecil."
A voice that definitely doesn't sound like Cecil responds. "Hi, Carlos. I need a favour."
Carlos sits back down in his chair. "What's wrong with your voice?"
A few muffled coughs are heard before a response. "I've got the worst cold in the history of the universe, and I'm supposed to be on the air in twelve minutes."
Carlos nods. "Mmm. So, what can I do for you?"
A little hesitantly, Cecil says. "Well. I'm in no shape to do the news. And I don't know how busy you are at the moment. But I was wondering. If it's not too much trouble. Could you do the broadcast tonight?"
"O- oh." Carlos responds. "Well, there's nothing happening over here. But I have no broadcast training and honestly I don't think I'd be very good."
"Pshaw, you'd be wonderful." another set of coughs.
"But. But how would I know what to read? How to work any of the controls?" Carlos says, sounding a bit nervous. He was never one for speaking to large groups of people, even over the radio.
"Shush, you'll do fine." Cecil raspily assures him. "Everything is written down and all you need to do is read it. Our new intern Jeremy can help get you set up." he pauses, checking the clock. "You've got 5 minutes, have fun!"
Before Carlos can protest, Cecil hangs up the phone and immediately goes back to bed, hoping to sleep off his ailment.