There are rules when one leaves Night Vale.
Everyone knew that, of course. However, no one was ever quite sure just how they knew this. After all, people don't really leave. Sure, some disappeared - whisked away by the sheriff's secret police for reeducation, or perhaps snatched by that vague yet menacing government agency, or sucked through that one strange portal that glowed a soft lavender hue and smelled of pineapples that no one knew where it lead, only that it did... But one one ever considered those people gone from Night Vale. They were simply misplaced, waiting to be rediscovered.
Aside from all that, yes, there are rules when one leaves that friendly desert community of Night Vale. Hera McDaniels chanted them in a quick hushed tone under her breath, like a prayer, though she was sure Old Woman Josie's Angels could no longer hear her. The bag she had with her - a simple messenger bag with an extra interdimensional pocket which had been a gift from Cecil and Carlos - was clutched against her stomach, and she hunched over it a bit, nearly obscuring it from view. Her fingers, long and slender, occasionally twitched, remembering a beat to some long forgotten song. It must have been illegal once, if the unease and flashes of guilt that accompanied the tapping were anything to go by. Yet she continued to tap; she passed the Sheriff's Secret Police jurisdiction boundary line what felt like hours ago. Perhaps it had only been minutes ago, or as long as weeks, months, years even. Hera didn't know. Time is weird, and she decided (what she assumes was) long ago, that she wouldn't pay it any mind.
The bus remained empty of any other passengers since it had picked up Hera from the Night Vale Community Radio Station. Cecil and the rest of the interns had thrown her a farewell party. Which was something of a shock, considering that ever she hadn't known she was supposed to leave just yet. Nonetheless, the gesture had been sweet, even if there was an incident when intern Cleo went to offer station management a piece of cake. They don't like cookie cake, it seems.
The radio, which the Faceless Driver has tuned to WZZZ, crackled with static. The farther from Night Vale they traveled, the worse it got. Hera strained to catch Cecil's familiar voice, and it brought her comfort when she heard him talk about the little goings on in town.
She had grown up listening to Cecil and his show, and it had sparked a love for radio in her. She took classes at the local community college, and had been one of the 8 surviving graduates. Naturally she had applied for an internship during her education, and there was talk - or what one can only assume was talk - amongst management that she, Hera McDaniels, had a shot at being the next Voice.
As it turned out, Night Vale is not the community she is meant to speak for.
The bus lurched to a stop, old brakes screeching in their effort. Hera's arm shot out to brace herself, and when she was sure the bus had completely stopped, she pried her hand free of the seat in front of her. It left a black scorched print that gave off the stench of burnt carpet.
Desperation made her hope that this was not her stop; she wasn't ready to be a Voice, no matter the words of encouragement from Cecil and her cousin Hiram, or Old Woman Josie and her Angels. It was too much, too quick - how would she do it without their guidance? She looked out the window, but saw nothing. The windows had been painted black sometime ago. Most of Night Vale's public transportation was like this.
When if seemed that the bus was not going to continue until it was rid of its sole passenger, Hera stood from her seat. Her hands shook as she reached down and grabbed her gym bag from the floor under her seat and threw the strap over her shoulder. Her knees felt weak as she slowly made her way to the front of the bus. Her hearts pounded, and she worried they would rip right out of her chest, which would have been unfortunate. She couldn't say she wanted to spend so much time hunting them down, especially since she had yet to pay her fare.
"Fare," the Driver reminded her as she came to a stop next to him and the still closed door. She wondered briefly how he could speak, considering his lack of face, but quickly brushed the thoughts aside. Sometimes it's best not to question things.
She held her hand up over the silver goblet set up next to the Driver's seat and with speed invisible to the human - and faceless - eye, dragged her sharpened thumb nail over the side of her index finger. The skin split, and beads of blood welled up from the thin slice. Exactly three drops fell from her hand into the goblet before the cut disappeared. The blood sizzled as it landed.
The door opened and Hera remained frozen, hand to her mouth where she had sucked away the remaining blood. She felt the hot summer air on her back, heard the crickets and frogs sing in harmony, a dog bark in the distance - she wondered if it knew to steer clear from the dog park. The air smelled different than that of the dry desert she had spent her entire life in.
Panic welled in her throat. Leaving the bus meant leaving the last of her home, and while she knew why she must leave, that didn't mean she was ready. What if, once she left, she would be forgotten. A name briefly considered, a flash of a face in a memory, lost in time, to those she loved and cared for. Or worse, she would forget them, lost pieces of her past left behind.
The radio crackled once more, and Hera could hear Cecil's voice as clear as though he stood next to her.
"If you can hear my voice speaking live, then you know: We are not history yet. We are happening now. How miraculous is that?"
Hera closed her eyes and exhaled. I am not history yet, she thought to herself. I am not history yet. She turned and carefully walked down the steps of the bus, hand gripping and warping the safety rail and eyes on the steps so she wouldn't miss one. Once she was on the ground, she slowly looked up and around.
The structure of the station before her was painfully familiar. A replica of that of Night Vale's, though smaller, if that's even possible. The station stood alone, illuminated by the full moon's light in what could only be called a clearing - she realized that her station stood in a forest - and that was a dizzying thought, her station. Purple flowers sprouted from an overgrown garden surrounding the station, and they danced in the hot summer breeze. Vines enveloped the small building and seemed to reach up for the moon itself.
But what drew Hera in, what made her feel truly at peace, was how the station gave distinct feeling of home, the smell of magic only Night Vale could achieve - like peanut butter waffles. She smiled, and stepped through the flowers to the door. Her footsteps burned the path behind her. She stopped at the door, her hand on the handle. It felt solid beneath her touch, and she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment before looking back to the bus. Gone, and she was left to stare at the overgrown trail left untouched in its wake.
The door opened, giving no resistance, and a wave of stale air hit her as she pushed it open. She wrinkled her nose, poking her head in, and saw a large window on the wall across from her. Moonlight streamed in, falling upon the control booth that lined the window. She walked in, allowing the door to shut behind her, and found her eyes hardly needed to adjust - the moon offered ample lighting. A chair sat before the control station, and in front of it rested a mic and a pair of headphones.
She crossed the room and pulled the chair back, dropping her bags next to it. She eyed it, wondering if the old thing would hold her, and was pleasantly surprised when it only squeaked under her weight. Looking out the window, she realized that the station was situated on a… hill? A cliff? That oversaw the whole of her new town. The lights shined below her, and they reminded her of the stars.
She took in the controls before her, noting that they were a mirror of those back at Cecil's station. She had worked on them long enough to know how to work those in front of her, and so with practiced movements eased the station alive.
She reached out, grabbing the headphones, and carefully placed them over her ears. She took a breath, wondering what she would say. The words always seemed to just come to Cecil. Perhaps they would come to her.
In a lonely hospital room, a radio sparked to life. Static filled the room, and its lone occupant twitched awake, but did not move to quiet the device. Slowly, the radio lulled down to a only a low hiss, and a soft, melodious voice drifted into the room, filling every nook and crevice.
"What a beautiful moon we have. How soft her light, how comforting her presence. She sings to us - can you hear her? Hello, beloved Beacon Hills. I have been chosen by the unknown to be your guide for this evening, and every evening following, barring any sudden deaths on either of our parts. You may call me Hera."
On his hospital bed, Peter Hale smiled for the first time in five years.
Hello! Thanks for giving this here fic a try! To be completely honest, I'm not really sure where this is going, but I've wanted to write this for a while, so we'll go on this journey together! Let me know what you think so far!
If you've followed me from Kerosene Hearts, I swear I'm going back to that soon. I won't abandon it when we're so close to the end of season one, I promise.
Stay schway, y'all.