A single drop of rain falls from a cloudless sky. The parched soil drinks it greedily. The sky is hungry. The soil is drowning. Welcome . . . to Night Vale.
Big news today, Night Vale. Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, reports that last night, he apprehended a stranger, who, he says, stumbled in from the Sand Wastes 'like something out of a nightmare, you know, the one where a kind of ordinary-looking young woman stumbles in from the Sand Wastes sort of looking like she's been beaten up by a train, if trains could beat people up, which I'm not sure they can, but if they could, you'd imagine that someone who had been beaten up by a train would look . . . pretty much like this girl looks.'
The young woman, who, Larry tells us, either cannot or refuses to speak, was carrying a strange, white-bodied device whose rounded end glowed with blue light not unlike the lights seen above the Arby's on a nightly basis, which emitted a strange, but oddly comforting hum, and which the woman absolutely refused to let go of, to the point of physically assaulting Larry, reportedly by taking several of his firearms from him and beating him violently over the head with them. The Sheriff's Secret Police, who were watching the whole time―as they are watching all of us, all the time, diligently and sleeplessly, with sharp eyes and twitching ears―did not press the issue, as, they said, 'She looked pretty darn scary, hitting Larry over the head with his own assault rifle like that, I mean, who does that? Who hits people with their own guns? It's just not natural.'
The woman is now in custody at the Arby's, although, as Larry reports, she is less 'in custody' and more 'taking a nap in one of the booths, and we're all too scared of her to wake her up. Did you see what she did? I think my skull is broken. Please take me to a hospital. Is anyone even listening to me? I need medical attention. Oh god, so much blood. I'm pretty sure all this blood is supposed to be on the inside. Can anyone hear me? Hellooooo!'
As to the nature of the device she carries, Todd Fleming, who was having a roast beef sandwich at the Arby's―or, at least, what he was fairly certain was a roast beef sandwich―when the woman arrived, had no guesses, other than that 'it's probably come kind of weapon, you know, like, a laser rifle, or something? I'm pretty sure they have laser rifles, you know, out there.' Well, we certainly appreciate your insight, Todd, and look forward to future developments in this curious and riveting story.
It's that time of year again, citizens! The Night Vale Repressed Emotion and Freudian Psychology Fund is having their annual Anger Drive at Big Rico's Pizza! The location has changed this year due to the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, where the event has traditionally been held, being overrun with Night Vale militia members and the tiny invaders from the underground city beneath the pin return of Lane 5. A representative from the NVREFPF gave the following reasons for the change: 'It's just so hard to get good and angry with all that distraction going on around you. We want our test subjects―I mean, volunteers―to have the best experience possible.' As always, attendance is completely voluntary, and volunteering is mandatory. The city council has declared that any citizens caught not volunteering for the Anger Drive will be taken by the Sheriff's Secret Police to the abandoned mines outside of town, where they will await punishment in comfort and occasional torment.
The Dog Park, which you should not speak about, or even think about, is under renovations by the Hooded Figures this week―at least, we assume that the terrific banging, the clattering as of bones tumbling down an empty mountain slope in the middle of the night, the screeching as of an orchestra of steel cellos playing postmodern jazz, is due to construction. Citizens are reminded that even thinking about the Dog Park―which the city council reminds us does not exist―is considered a Thought Crime, and you will be sent to Thought Prison for even considering the possible existence of a Dog Park in Night Vale. I, fortunately, am speaking purely hypothetically, and am certain that, even if there were a Dog Park in Night Vale―which there is not―it would certainly not be any of my business. So, remember, citizens: there is. No. Dog Park. There are no renovations in the Dog Park, because the Dog Park does not exist. If you think you have seen a Dog Park, with nine-foot-high obsidian walls that shroud its misty interior from all but the most determined of scrutiny, where the Hooded Figures congregate on a regular basis and into which many of the citizens of Night Vale, including our own intern Dana, have previously vanished, you are only hallucinating, and you should probably stay at home, curled up in the fetal position underneath your bed, shrouded in the dubious protection of your blankets and self-doubt, until you feel better, and recall that there is no Dog Park, and there never has been, and there never will be. To think otherwise, dear citizens, is to invite calamity upon us all.
And now, a word from our sponsors.
You awaken, alone and in darkness. It takes a moment to remember that you are in your own bed, and not, as you thought at first, in some strange and sinister place. You wonder what it was that woke you―a nightmare, perhaps, or a noise from outside. But, as you roll over onto your other side and pull the blankets closer, sleep will not come to you. You are lying in bed, huddled beneath the covers, completely wide awake, your heart beating swiftly with a fear you cannot explain or qualify.
Minutes pass, minutes of silence and darkness, so deep and so thick you can scarcely hear your own heartbeat. You fear you may have gone blind and deaf in the night and are now eternally lost in the prison of your own body. But then, suddenly―! A sharp noise cuts through the silence, making shallow but precise incisions into the tissue of your consciousness. It is a knocking at your door. You know, without knowing how you know, that this is the sound that woke you. It is not urgent. It is not panicked or fearful, nor is it angry. It is simply . . . knocking. Yet still, the sound of it makes your blood run cold in your veins, and although you want nothing more than to stay safely hidden in your bed until this reality passes into nightmare, you somehow know that you cannot leave the door unanswered.
But you are afraid.
The night has lasted for hours, days. You have stayed motionless under your blankets scarcely daring to breathe while the knocking continues outside. It is no longer an occasional percussion, but now a constant assault of your door―the door to your bedroom, you have realized, but you live alone, and you know you locked all the doors.
At last, shaking and exhausted, you peel back the covers and slowly pry yourself from the bed―is that your silhouette, indented in the mattress? How long have you cowered there, alone and breathless? But you approach the door, your footsteps slow and hesitating, the knocking growing louder and louder until it is a frantic pounding that threatens to break down the door, a terrible drumming that could not be produced by mere human hands. There is blood seeping under the door and it is soaking your feet. Your walls have fallen away and you are surrounded only by the void, the only way out is through that bedroom door that is splintering under the onslaught from outside. You reach out, you put your hand on the knob, and the knocking . . . stops. Slowly, your heart in your throat, you open your bedroom door.
Pizza Hut. Make It Great.
More now on the woman from the Sand Wastes.
Listeners, I hate to tell you this, but that person―if, indeed, she can be called a person―is clearly Bad News. Carlos―my beautiful, sensitive, caring Carlos―upon hearing that someone had wandered into town out of the Sand Wastes, immediately set out to investigate and provide what support he could. When he arrived at the Arby's, the young woman―if that is what she is―had woken from her nap and had somehow communicated to the Sheriff's Secret Police that yes, she would like a roast beef sandwich, she was starving, and could you also get her a cup of water―no, not the meal, she didn't want to be a burden on anybody's wallet, just a sandwich and a water, please. Just as everyone was beginning to relax around her and it seemed like she might be a civil human being (after devouring her roast beef sandwich in a manner that was, according to the Secret Police, ravenous), Carlos came in and took charge of the situation. What a great guy! When nobody else knows what to do or even if there is anything to be done but cower, Carlos always turns up just in time to save the day.
But, dear listeners, this is where our story turns bizarre.
As soon as she caught sight of beautiful, perfect Carlos in his beautiful, immaculate lab coat, the woman dove for cover under the nearest table, holding her strange device at the ready and wearing an expression, Carlos told me, of intense hatred.
"It's all right!" Carlos exclaimed, his perfect hands raised in the air in a gesture of peace. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm a scientist."
At those words, which would have soothed the nerves of even the most intractable human being, the woman flew into a frenzy. She fired her strange weapon―for it does seem to be a weapon―at the ceiling above Carlos's beautiful head, and then beneath the next table over. And oh, listeners, wondrous and terrible to hear! The table fell straight down through the floor and came out of the ceiling, falling right on top of Carlos! Rest assured, listeners, he suffered only minor injuries, since he dove out of the way just in time, but the woman, it seems, took the opportunity to escape from the Arby's during that moment of confusion. The City Council has advised that she is probably extremely dangerous and should not be approached by anyone, ever, and we'll all just hope she gets bored with us and goes away back to wherever she came from.
Listeners, let me reiterate: this woman is clearly dangerous. Anyone who would attack beautiful, harmless Carlos is obviously either insane or pure evil. Hold on, what―? One moment, listeners.
(What's that? ...He's WHAT? ...Well, where did she go? ...No, no it's fine, I'll . . . take care of it.)
Uh, listeners, we've had a bit of an, um, emergency situation here. It seems that after the young woman ran away, Carlos, after calling me to tell me what happened, went after her. According to our sources, which are, really, Rafael the intern who was looking out the window at the time, they were both last seen heading in the direction of Carlos's lab! Listeners, I'm sure you'll agree with me that Carlos, perfect, wonderful Carlos, cannot be left to face this menace on his own. I'm going to go help him, and I pray that I will return to you in good time and good health. Ooh, I hope Carlos will be okay without me for a little while!
Meanwhile, I give you . . . the weather.
Well, citizens, I have good news and bad news.
The bad news is, I never made it to Carlos's lab. The good news is, that's because he called me to let me know what was going on―he was listening to the broadcast on the way back to his lab, so he knew I was heading that direction. Oh, sweet, brilliant Carlos! He told me, not in so many words, that the young woman had calmed down and he was in no danger. She still refuses to speak, but, Carlos said, after he offered her an explanation of where she was, who he was, and that she was in no danger (as well as a glass of water mixed with a mild sedative), she calmed down considerably, although she still refuses to let go of her strange, glowing weapon. Carlos has informed me that he thinks she has escaped from some laboratory, as he got a look at her shirt and the weapon, both of which were emblazoned with the slogan, "APERTURE LABORATORIES." He thinks this may explain her aversion to scientists, although, to this radio announcer at least, an aversion to scientists still seems ridiculous.
The woman is staying, for the moment, in Carlos's lab, and―ooh, listeners, I shouldn't tell you this, but I just can't resist―he's invited me to come over and talk to her after the broadcast! Can you imagine? Carlos, invited me, to come over to his house! I can hardly contain my excitement, listeners. And, of course, that means that for the next broadcast, I'll have insider information on the young woman from this 'Aperture' place.
Perhaps, listeners, this should be a lesson to us all. Things that seem frightening and dangerous at first, may turn out to only be confusing and dangerous. With patience and level-headedness, we can weather any storm in the company of our loved ones, holding them close in case they need to go out for supplies and, despite their promises that they will be right back, are never seen or heard from again. This young woman is a reminder that there are places beyond Night Vale, places where things are different, and infinitely more horrible and terrifying. Certainly, citizens, we should open our arms and our hearts to this newcomer, who came to us in her time of need from a place where, perhaps, not all scientists are as beautiful and perfect as Carlos. And for that, most definitely, we should pity her. This should be a reminder of how good we have it here, how precious our little community is to us, and how we should really put up a fence between here and the Sand Wastes. There's no telling what's out there, waiting to come in.
And so, listeners, with a heart full of hope for the future and a body that is a little too full of blood, I bid you . . . good night, Night Vale. Good night.
A/N: Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Commonplace Books. If you haven't checked it out, you really should (also, how did you find this?). Inspiration for the title and the characterization of Chell comes from wafflestories excellent fanfiction Blue Sky, which can be found here on this very site with only a teensy bit of searching. If you're a Portal fan and you haven't read it, you are missing out. Trust me. Would I lie to you? Yes. Yes I would. But not about this.