A/N: Hello the ff-dot-net side of the WtNV fandom! Wow, there...aren't a lot of us, are there? Anyway. There is a weather report for as long as the URL still leads somewhere. Would that I could embed links, but I'm assuming everyone on this site (and especially in this fandom) knows the drill with copy/pasting the provided URL and replacing instances the word "dot" with a period.

I'm only caught up to episode 119 so just bear that in mind, please. Sorry if anything here somehow contravenes later canon, but I didn't want to leave this unposted until I was up to date, considering the last time I did that with a WtNV fic I wound up falling, I kid you not, four years behind in the series. I...still don't really know how that happened.

But enough jabbering! Read on! Enjoy!

It isn't really raining. That's just the angels crying.

...I'm not saying it. No, I mean it, Kareem. Take your finger off that button! We don't need theme music. There's no show today.

I am not. Saying. The words.

This, listeners, has not been some catchy introductory segment for a talk/news show. This is an emergency broadcast: "it isn't really raining, that's just the angels crying." That's what it says right here on the release from the City Council. Of course, the word "angels" has an asterisk next to it which...

[Paper rustles.]

...has a counterpart on the back of the page, corresponding to a lengthy legalese diatribe reiterating that angels are nonexistent, just in case any of us have forgotten that incredibly well known...fact.

["Fact" is not spoken, but spat. The fricative is stretched and harsh, while the stops are enunciated with absolute precision and lethal weight, almost separate sounds: fffffa-kuh-tuh.]

The word 'angel', the City Council explains, was chosen as shorthand, an easily accessible metaphor for our feeble mortal minds which should not be yada, yada, yada. [A sigh.] We know the drill. The angels-but-not-angels are crying, which is manifesting in the form of precipitation that should not be confused with the natural meteorological phenomenon known as 'rain' wherein water falls from the sky via puffy white sun-obstructions. You don't know the ones I'm talking about. You aren't allowed to know the ones I'm talking about. But hey, for shorthand, let's call them 'clouds'. It's an easily-accessible metaphor for our feeble mortal minds.

Look, I don't want to bury the lede too much here. If you were to go out into the rain-that-isn't-rain being caused by the angels-that-aren't-angels, you would see that it is gently glowing, and moments later you would also learn, the hard way, that it is highly caustic. Specifically, it rapidly breaks down organic material, like wood, natural fibres, and us. Do you remember that scene from The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy threw a bucket of water over the Wicked Witch of the West, and the Witch dissolved, screaming, into a stagnant puddle of offal and blood and molten bone while Dorothy looked down on her in triumph and bade the winged monkeys to crown her their new queen as, with this final act of blood sacrifice, she shed the weak flesh of her mortal child's body to ascend to her rightful place in the pantheon of the Old Ones, attaining at last the destiny which had known was hers since the day she slew the Witch's sister and donned the silver shoes stained eternally red by her blood? It's like that, only, like, skipping to the super-depressing ending where it turns out to have maybe-or-maybe-not been a fantasy Dorothy made up in a desperate bid to escape her reality as a child soldier and delude herself into believing she hadn't firebombed her home into oblivion, an interpretation that leads to her metaphorically becoming an incarnation of glorified slaughter, as opposed to literally.

Gotta say, the movie pushed way too hard for the 'it was all just a dream' angle; I personally prefer the ambiguity of the original work—but I'm starting to get a little off-topic. To clarify: yes, we are the Wicked Witch in this analogy, and yes, the rain is the bucket of soapy water, so don't go out in it. Apparently like three different people have already tried it since the initial deluge caught the lunch-break crowd unawares earlier. All of these people are currently undergoing treatment for severe burns and some early-stage melting, but they are expected to survive. In fact, there are currently no reported fatalities as a result of the rain, but I remind you, listeners, that what does not kill you can still hurt you very badly. Do not. Go out. In the rain.

Seriously.

Don't.

This ends today's emergency broadcast. This message has been recorded and will be re-broadcast at regular intervals until the current crisis is resolved. Thank you.

[A loud click is heard, followed by a light thump that overlaps with the sound of wheels rolling away across linoleum. The ratcheting turn and solid thud of a door handle. Once. Twice. Then over and over again, rapid like the reports of a machine gun. At last, silence.]

Um. Uh, Kareem? Kareem, are you still—? Oh thank God. Yeah, uh, I don't know what's going on, but—oh? Is it a mark, a rune, or a sigil? You don't—okay, look, is it glowing? Then it's probably a sigil. Do you know who put it there? ...Oh really.

Wait, is...? How is there audio? I turned the mic off! Are we still on-air?

Oh, you have got to be kidding me!

[Heavy, angry footsteps. An even heavier, angrier impact. Heaviest and angriest of all is the explosive exhale that precedes the sound of wheels on linoleum, rolling forward now, not away. The light, tight, forced cheer of the voice which follows is no easier on the ears.]

Well, listeners, it seems we will not be needing that recorded message after all. This is still me, Cecil, coming to you live, now, from the studio of Night Vale Community Radio, where Intern Kareem has just informed me that Station Management is refusing to let me leave the recording booth. They have, in fact, employed dark magic to seal me in here until I do today's show. The one I specifically told them I would not be doing, as I have, for the first time in, oh...

[A swift, hissing breath is sucked in, forming a measured pause.]

...ever? Yeah, ever, taken a personal day. Not vacation time, not medical leave, not even a Secret Police Detainment and/or Quarantine Interval (Circle Appropriate), oh no: a personal day. Just one. A single day, for myself, personally. Now, long-time listeners may remember that the better part of two years ago I used, well, all of my shored-up vacation time to pay a visit to Carlos during his...extended stay in the desert otherworld. I was under a great deal of stress at that point, and I needed to spend some time with a person I love and trust. Management respected my needs at the time, and I (foolishly, it seems) dared hope they would do the same on this occasion.

Do you remember, listeners, the source of my turmoil all those many months ago? Do you remember the mystery of Lot 37, sold off to an unknown buyer at the Sheriff's Secret Police's seized-property auction in 2013? Do you remember my voice, small and shaking, as here in this very booth, pouring my very soul into the microphone and thence into your own two or more or fewer ears, I agonised over unexplained lost time, mysterious injuries that appeared out of nowhere—as I feared by turns for my sanity and my autonomy? As I descended from sensible Night Valian vigilance to rampant paranoia, as I lashed out, careless and petty, against the people dearest to me—people like our mayor, Dana Cardinal, whose life I was compelled to save again and again without any knowledge or consent? There was no one in Night Vale I truly trusted towards the end of those dark days, myself included, and the person I became as a result of that all-encompassing suspicion was not one I cared for.

It is an odd thing to describe, being forced to help a dear friend by powers beyond your control. Even now, looking back on those events with a clear understanding of what happened—except for how my free will ended up on the auction block; that I'm still a little confused about—I feel an uncomfortable mixture of resentment and gratitude, of sympathy and anger, towards the responsible party, an entity who had been driven to the brink of despair by his own helplessness and inflicted the same plight upon myself in his efforts to set things right. "Could I ever fully forgive him?" I wonder—then, "is there anything to forgive?" "Perhaps I should have thanked him," I muse—then, "do beneficial results excuse harmful methods?" Loudest of all, perhaps, is a thought that has no counterpart: "Did either of us have a choice?"

I wonder, and muse, and brood, and stew, contradicting myself at every turn. Conflicted. Complicated. Complicating. Amidst such uncertainty, perhaps it is more accurate to say that I do not know what I feel towards the responsible party.

I do not know what I feel towards the violet head of Hiram McDaniels. Only that I feel it strongly, and that I will never have the opportunity to say so. I will never have the opportunity to say anything more to Violet, nor he to me, because after a brief and bittersweet reunion with freedom not twenty-four hours ago, he is dead. Suddenly, violently, unlawfully dead, and if there is one thing I do know, that I have always known, it is that he did not deserve to die. Nor do Hiram's remaining four heads deserve to suffer the pain of parting from their fellow, nor Hiram as a whole to endure the permanent loss of a thinking, feeling piece of himself.

Perhaps that is why the angels, as Old Woman Josie calls them, are weeping. Perhaps they, like me, like so many of us here in Night Vale, are in mourning for the violet head of Hiram McDaniels, fighting past the numbness of shock only to struggle with grief made all the weightier by words unsaid and emotions unprocessed. Grief that falls as crushing and inevitable as a cartoon anvil, leaving us as nothing more than flattened colouring-book versions of ourselves, faces frozen in a comical look of shock. Or perhaps they weep from uncertainty, from fear at the continued poor health of Josie herself, one of the kindest souls I've ever known. Perhaps they weep for all of us, their depthless sorrow born from knowledge we lack the context to comprehend.

There are countless reasons for weeping, Night Vale, and we are acquainted with so. Very. Many.

Unfortunately, it looks like I am unable to turn off the microphone, so stay tuned for an extended program of the sounds of breathing, pacing, muffled swearing, and increasingly desperate attempts to open a mystically-sealed door before the air runs out, I guess. Oh, oh wait—Kareem? Do the bumps still work? Great! Set one up, please?

Good news, listeners. I can't turn off the mic but I can go off-air, as long as the soundboard is outputting some kind of audio. Boy, I sure do hope you like our bumper music, because you're going to hear a lot of it! Unless you turn off your radio, of course.

Actually—just do that. That's a great plan.

Uhhh, hello again, any...remaining listeners. So sorry to leave you for so long without the, er, soothing tones of my, ah...

[A soft clearing of the throat.]

I'll be honest, Night Vale: there is still no show. I still do not want to be here, and left to my own devices I would be at home by now, curled up on the couch, probably watching something mindless on the television and allowing my brain to atrophy into useless ooze inside my skull. Failing that, I would be attempting to nap right here in my chair while brief snippets of atmospheric music looped endlessly over the airwaves, but Station Management has emerged from behind the faux wood and frosted glass of their terrible door to register their displeasure with this totally reasonable and oxygen-preserving course of action. By which I mean they are presently standing (if that is indeed the correct word) directly outside my recording booth, staring intently through the window with their awful manifold gaze. Intern Kareem heard them coming and wisely vacated the studio at speed. He has excellent self-preservation instincts for an outsider, even one gradually undergoing naturalisation. He moved so fast that he left one of his shoes behind. I can just see it lying abandoned on the floor, flickering in and out of visibility moment to moment according to the movement of Station Management's many appendages.

Apathy is a heady potion, dear listeners, and I was at first determined to stare them down, which I feel I must remind you is something you should never do with eldritch beings. Even discounting the likelihood of such an entity taking offense and painfully ending your life, there are the detrimental effects on one's sanity to consider. Merely looking at the impossible geometry of an incomprehensible being, object, or locale can put the mind of an entity accustomed to existing in a finite number of dimensions at once at grave risk, and the danger increases at a proportionate rate to the time spent looking. Somewhat to my surprise, I felt no ill effects as a result of extended truculent staring at Station Management. I did, however, notice that the longer I stayed silent, the closer one horrible limb drew to the handle of the recording booth's door.

It seemed unlikely the implacable immortal being (or collection of beings) who presumably signs (or sign) the paycheques I never receive but which somehow replenish my bank account every other un-cancelled Friday had any intentions of relenting from their ultimatum, and I freely confess that self-preservation won out over stubbornness just as Station Management was about to close the last inch to the door handle.

"Alright!" I told them, causing their limb to stop in place. "Alright, I'll—I'll go back on the air. I'll go back on the air, okay?"

Apparently satisfied, Station Management withdrew the particular limb reaching for the door and stretched out another towards the soundboard. Three more rose up in the air, lowering one by one in a clear countdown, and then the fourth appendage flicked a switch and lit the On Air sign before slowly drawing a slider down, causing the music to fade into silence as my voice returned to grace your sets.

Is it weird to feel proud of something that's older than human civilisation and which is also holding you prisoner in your own workplace, because I had no idea Station Management knew how to run a soundboard or even how to cue in a broadcaster! Guess they're the boss for a reason, huh?

Oh! Oh my. The light in the main studio went out for a moment, and now that it's back on I see Station Management has vanished. They appear to have taken Kareem's shoe with them.

[The sealing-and-peeling click of a tongue against the maxillary alveolar arch. Then a soft exhale, not quite a sigh but too deep for mere respiration]

...Of course, listeners, this leaves me with a dilemma. Since I had no intention of doing a show today, I have no material to work with. No notes, no inspiration, and frankly, no motivation. Oh, you would think continued survival would be all the motivation you'd need, but lemme be the first to tell you—or maybe not the first, I don't know your life—it does not work that way. I can talk until the cows come winging home over the Sand Wastes, but I don't want to. I don't! Not today. I really want to be professional here, but honestly, when you're unprepared in every sense to carry out your duties, the professional, responsible thing to do is to admit it and take a step back, rather than try to brazen through and make a mess of it. [A sharp, irritated, long-suffering sigh.] Which is exactly what is happening now.

Also, as long as we're being so honest: I lied just now. I do know your life. Intimately.

Oh, hey Kareem! Goodness, you are looking pale. Listeners, Intern Kareem has returned to the studio, lacking a shoe but otherwise whole. It seems he did not run after all, or at least, not far. What a trouper! Really, though, you don't have to keep me company. There's no show, so you aren't obligated to be here any more than I was until someone locked me in here.

What's that? Kareem is mouthing something through the window, uh..."college credit"?

Oh. Oooh. Yes, of course, as long as I'm stuck in here, Station Management will be responsible for rating any station interns, and since they've decided this is showtime, Kareem's evaluation will take a hit on attendance if he leaves before we go off-air for good today. Ouch. Well, I'm very sorry about that, Kareem, but I really don't have a show today. Trust me, I am every bit as eager to leave here as you are. Possibly even more eager, since, y'know, you're the one with access to the coffee machine, the snack cupboard, a functionally-unlimited supply of breathable air, and also toilets.

Guess I'd...better get to it, then. I'm still not saying the words.

We've already addressed our top story for today, but here's a recap. Angels ugly-cry, and their tears become flesh-eating rain. Don't want your flesh eaten? Use an umbrella—synthetic materials only! For their part, Carlos's team of scientists highly recommend hazmat suits.

"They're pretty grea-at," an unidentifiable plastic-shrouded scientist said in a sing-song tone, before giving a squeaky double thumbs-up and adding "Look Ma, no hands!" in what was either a dismissive idiom directed towards umbrellas or a blatant contradiction of the shiny black-rubber-encased facts.

John Peters (y'know, the farmer?) was seen earlier today in a much-repaired old space suit, carrying an armful of tarps and throwing them over as many of his invisible crops as he could since, of course, plants are organisms too and every bit as much at risk as any of us. When approached for a statement, he scowled and tapped the side of his helmet, mouthing words no one could hear as the frequency of his suit radio is not known to anyone but John Peters himself. He then pressed several of his tarps into the arms of the startled reporter addressing him and stabbed his white-gloved finger urgently at his presumably-disintegrating invisible crops and the hissing, pitted earth around them. Since then quite a few townsfolk have arrived at the Peters farm and other farms in the affected area, wearing an assortment of protective gear and hauling loads of plastic tarps.

As a side-effect of this touching display of civic unity and neighbourly goodwill, speculation has arisen over what exactly John Peters is growing at this time of year. I mean, we're a little past peak corn season. Perhaps he's moved into invisible soybeans. Such a low-profile crop would certainly explain why the tarps on his fields appear to be lying directly on the ground.

And now the...news, I guess. Um. Well...I hear Hadassah McDaniels is pretty upset that we executed a fifth of her little brother, so that'll probably come back to haunt us down the line. After her initial warp-spasms of grief and rage in the immediate aftermath of yesterday's tragic events, Hadassah fell eerily silent. Upon her release from the electrified enclosure, she immediately flew away without a single word from any of her heads. We do not know what to expect from her, or her fellow five-headed dragons. We only know that we have invoked the wrath of a protective older sibling, and we tremble with the knowing of it.

More on this story once the skies clear enough to restore multi-ton organic lifeforms to the level of credible threats.

You know, all this talk of big sisters makes me think of my own. I hardly ever mention her on the show because I don't know what to say about her. Our relationship is sometimes...complicated...but at the core of it is a simple truth. I love Abby. I wouldn't be the man I am today without her. Without Abby, I wouldn't have my wonderful niece Janice. Without me, Abby wouldn't have a college degree forever a few credits out of reach. So I guess you can tell who came out ahead in that relationship. But that simple truth, "I love Abby", has a corollary, a flip-side: Abby loves me. Despite everything, my sister loves me. I spare a moment to imagine what she would do if someone destroyed an integral part of me while she was forced to watch, helpless to come to my aid, and I feel a shiver course down my spine and seep into my marrow. I feel this because I know what I am imagining is tame compared to the havoc she would surely wreak.

She...came to visit me this morning, along with...her husband, Steve. [A sharp, deep inhale.] Carlos had asked them to. In spite of the fact that I specifically told him I didn't want to talk to anyone. And when I confronted him about it, he just looked at me. A Look, listeners, that would do a Night Vale native proud, and he said, "Cecil, you process your emotions best out loud. Literally everyone in Night Vale knows that about you." And I wanted to call him out on his use of 'literally' because at this point I honestly just assume no one uses 'literally' correctly anymore, but as you all know Carlos is a scientist who therefore greatly values precision and I have literally never heard him knowingly misuse any word, so instead I huddled deeper into the blanket I wore around my shoulders like a thick, fluffy cape and refused to meet his eyes.

"I love you," Carlos said, and I did not respond.

Abby did not say much to me. She smiled crookedly, and it only barely reached her eyes. This is not to say the smile was a dishonest one, but merely that Abby did not feel much like smiling. I could not blame her for that. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and pulled me close. I hugged her back by rote, feeling cold, and hating myself for that. Then she got to work making barley soup. Abby's barley soup is not good, but it is not bad either, and I love it. It is one of the few staples of my youth which is unchanged by the wheat and wheat by-product ban. It tastes of home.

Apparently the whole family was determined to convince me to open up since around lunchtime, Janice called and tried to talk to me. I tried to talk back. I am not much of a conversationalist today, it seems. I couldn't make myself focus as she relayed the latest news about her school life and her budding basketball career. Janice couldn't fail to notice, but she didn't complain. She just paused, and somehow, the pause sounded sad. "I love you," Janice said, and this time I said it back. It came easily. "I love you too, Janice." But the knowledge that I love and am loved was not enough to put me at ease.

Finally, inevitably, it was Steve's turn. I couldn't even find it in myself to complain when he sat down beside me on the couch. Not so much as a wordless groan of dismay escaped me.

"Do you ever think about," he began in a soft tone, which is where I would normally cut him off because no good comes of Steve Carlsburg starting a sentence like that. Today I did not care enough to interrupt him. "Do you ever think about why we do things the way we do them here in Night Vale?"

"Not really," I said curtly, which I thought was the truth, but the more time passed the more it felt like a lie. Speculation, wondering, asking questions, are often part of my job as a reporter. It is, in fact, the one part of my job that overlaps in any way with Carlos's; it is the part he connects with, and therefore the part that his horde of conscious and unconscious biases ensure that he is the most proud of and that makes me proud of it, too, even beyond my existing pride in my profession. I realised that I just wanted to disagree with Steve, to shut him up and get on with business as usual, and I had. Anyone with sense would have stopped there, but the more I thought, the more my words felt heavy and wrong in the air.

"Sometimes," I amended, and Steve's bowed head lifted as he looked at me in surprise.

"Yeah," Steve said after a moment. "Me too." Then he shifted awkwardly. "Nnno, that's not true. I think about it pretty much all the time. I mean, we all know things are different here than in other small towns, and sometimes we talk about it and sometimes we pretend we don't know. I don't get it."

"Steve," I said warningly, but he just shook his head.

"I don't get it," he repeated. His voice was firm and insistent. "There's nothing wrong with different. Different's just not the same." My next protest died in my throat as Steve twisted his wedding band around his finger, glancing down at it. 'Abby', I thought automatically, and then in short order, 'no, of course, Janice,' and I knew Steve was thinking about her too.

"Can't we celebrate the good different and fix the bad different? Cecil, you of all people know some things need to be talked about. You can't put a spotlight on the stuff you're proud of and just ignore the rest, all the stuff that makes you ashamed or angry or sad or confused or scared. You can't pretend the bad things didn't happen. Not forever."

I opened my mouth to retort. I don't know what I was going to say; something scathing, I'm sure, and bitingly witty, I hope, but in the brief hush that suffused the living room both of us became aware of a sound, soft at first but quickly growing in volume. It did not come from either of us, or the quietly-running television, or the kitchen. It came from above, a steady light drumming sound. Carlos entered from the kitchen and went immediately to the large back window, looking out at the clear blue sky through an increasingly-blurry pane of glass. Abby followed him into the room, drying her hands on a dish towel and peering warily up at the ceiling.

"Is that...rain?" she asked.

"It shouldn't be," said Carlos. "The humidity is too low. The pressure fronts are all wrong. And there are no—"

His eyes flicked to the hiding place of the nearest Secret Police surveillance microphone.

"You know," he finished, waving a hand in the vague direction of the sky. And then, because it's Carlos, he mouthed, "Clouds" anyway, just to make sure we did, in fact, know.

All further speculation was cut off as the stereo in the corner emitted a shrill, hissing, undulating beep that it took me a moment to place as the sound of a fax machine. Two uncreased sheets of paper pushed out from a CD slot far too small for them, one after the other. Steve crossed the room and picked them up, quickly skimming their contents.

"I think it's for you, Cecil," he said, handing them to me. One page was the notice from the City Council which I read on-air earlier. The other was a broadcast order from Station Management.

As I dressed for venturing out in public, I thought about how I would address you all, listeners. As I hunted through the front hall closet for one of our rarely-used umbrellas, wordlessly handing another to Carlos as he slipped his shoes on, I thought of how my family had addressed me. And as I begrudgingly drove to work this afternoon, I thought specifically about what Steve Carlsburg had said. I thought about my own situation. I thought about the state of things in Night Vale. And I thought: 'You know what, Steve has a point.'

And now, traffic.

Several highly-variable blocks away from the studio, inside Night Vale High School, Janice Palmer claps her hands together, pleased, earning confused looks from any students clustered around her in the crowded gymnasium who are not presently tuned into the radio through headphones of their own. Her teachers get it, huddled as they are around a larger set that plays quietly in the corner. A different number of blocks in what is presently the opposite direction of NVHS, Carlos the Scientist finds himself spontaneously letting go of a beaker full of gently-glowing fluid that flows in rivulets around the shards on the floor and creeps towards his thankfully synthetic and waterproof shoes. The other scientists currently in the laboratory do not spare him a glance, staring blankly and silently at the radio. Somewhere between these two points, en route to pick Janice up from school, Steve Carlsburg slams on his brakes, lizard-brain instincts demanding he immediately grow still to assess the sudden tilt of a world thrown off its axis; fortunately, or perhaps not since the word implies a degree of chance coincidence that is not present, the drivers of the cars before and behind him do the exact same thing at the exact same time. In fact, every car in Night Vale comes to a dead halt in that exact instant, as even radios switched off or set to other stations per the earlier advice of the disembodied voice issuing from them come to life or adjust their tuning in the split seconds between speech, capture, conversion, and broadcast of the closing lines of the preceding editorial. Because apparently, even after dedicating my life to them, radios hate me now! Great.

This has been traffic.

Listeners, I've asked Kareem to head over to Old Woman Josie's house to see what exactly is causing her otherworldly and non-existent houseguests such distress, as well as whether or not anything can be done about it because this was, after all, supposed to be an emergency broadcast at its inception and perhaps if the rain-that-is-not-rain can be stopped, I will be allowed to leave. Kareem was reluctant at first, until I reminded him that the sooner I get to go home, the sooner he gets to do the same. His only objection at that point was that he had only one shoe, as Station Management has inexplicably made off with the other one. Fortunately, there's a locker in the break room containing the uncollected personal effects of some of our previous station interns, and Kareem was able to find a pair of only-slightly-chewed faux-leather sneakers in his size that should be proof against the carbon-eating properties of the deadly rain. Those plus one of the anti-splatter ponchos we use during City Council press conferences and he was all set! He should be arriving there any moment now, so we can hopefully look forward to some information on that front very soon. But first, a word from our sponsors.

All is grey. Sky, grey. Ground, grey. People, grey. Words, grey. Grey. Grey.

You search for colour. It is not a metaphor. You search for colour and you find it, a flicker on your television. And then it is gone, the picture playing out in black-and-white that isn't really black and white at all. That's just your culture's term for visual media displayed all in grey. Despairing of ever knowing anything but grey again, you watch the monochrome drama play out. It is like looking in a mirror. You lounge upon your couch, staring with glazed eyes at your TV, and the person on the TV lounges on their couch and stares back.

But then something happens. The music picks up, and the world explodes into colour, blessed colour! You feel like a blind man given sight! You feel like a child given candy! You feel like Dorothy beginning her triumphant procession away from the site of her first kill as the gloom of Kansas—and possibly, the fetor of war—falls away from her!

A voice speaks over the music, but you can barely hear it in your delight. It speaks rapidly, in an ill-suited monotone, of depression and illness and death, but how can you care about that when there on the screen you see your televised counterpart spring from the couch and smile and laugh and frolic in a bright and beautiful world you long to share? A world you can share, promises a simple imperative spoken loud enough to break through your reverie: Ask Your Doctor.

Prozac: What do doctors know about prescribing things, anyway?

[A stifled groan of discomfort precedes the beginning of the next segment, which is delivered in a slightly raspy voice.]

It's beginning to occur to me that I've been a little lax in the setup of my recording booth, listeners. I mean, who doesn't regularly restock the supply of bottled water kept in every enclosed space in which they might at some point become trapped? [A dry—in multiple senses—chuckle.] Some ex-Boy Scout I am, right? [The chuckles turn to quiet coughs.] Mm. Sorry about that. I—oh. Hang on. My phone is ringing...it's Kareem. Hey Kareem! Wait, are you calling from your car? You know that's—oh, you're still parked. That's fine then.

...Hold that thought, Kareem, I've just had a great idea.

[A creaking sound and the quiet roll of wheels. Whispered words are barely audible.]

You can—be fine!—nothing to it.

[Creaking and wheels.]

We've all gotta start somewhere, right? ...Okay. I'll call you back on the station phone. [Once again directly into the mic:] Listeners, today we'll be receiving Intern Kareem's first ever on-air report, broadcast live from his car outside the home of Old Woman Josie. This is a great opportunity for him to flex his journalistic muscles, and a great opportunity for me to tear this somehow increasingly tiny room apart until I know for sure that there's absolutely nothing to drink. Kareem, you're on.

[The voice which follows is higher, lightly tinged by a Midwest/Great Lakes accent, and subtly distorted by first the telephone lines and then the radio.]

Thank you, Mr. Palmer. Uh, hello, listeners, Intern Kareem here. I arrived at the home of Ms. Josefina Ortíz...ten minutes ago and it's clear that the...Erikas are still congregated here. I mean it's really clear. As soon as you step onto Ms. Ortíz's walkway, the rain stops. It's like there's a—a curtain of luminescent falling water right along her property line. The earth is still dry, the small lawn is still unnaturally green for a desert home, and the gardens are still beautiful and mostly full of plants that really shouldn't be able to grow in this climate. She has irises; those are marsh plants! Anyway. I knocked on the door and it was Ms. Alondra Ortíz who answered. I explained why I was there and she rolled her eyes—not all the way around, just upwards in sort of a 'why me?' expression. She let me in, though, and showed me down the hall to her mother's room, saying she was more likely to be able to answer any questions I might have. I didn't see anyone named Erika on my way through the house.

The elder Ms. Ortíz was alone in her room. She was sitting up against the headboard, which surprised me considering her condition. She smiled at me and asked me to sit. She also asked if I'd like a glass of lemonade, and didn't wait for me to reply before she gestured for her daughter to go fetch some. I was unable to see the younger Ms. Ortíz's face as she complied.

"You're here about the angels," Ms. Josie Ortíz said. Am—I allowed to say that if I'm quoting, Mr. Palmer?

Oh, yes. Just so long as you, personally, do not acknowledge the existence of angels—and why would you, they aren't real [a soft noise of disgruntlement from the other end of the line]—you're fine. Accurately reporting the words of others is part of our job.

You sound much better, sir.

Turns out there was a sealed bottle of water in the back of one of the tape drawers. I'm not sure how it fit in there, and I certainly don't remember putting it in there, and it's been in there long enough that the water kind of just tastes like plastic, but it no longer feels like the inside of my throat is being abraded by low-grit sandpaper, so I'm calling that a win. Please continue, Kareem; you're doing great. Did Josie explain what was going on?

...Sort of. She told me that she'd been surprised to hear about the harmful effects of the...of what she called the angels' tears. She also apologised. Apparently, this is partly a side-effect of something she asked the...alleged angels to do for her. "A personal favour", she called it. "Something I'm cashing in just for me." I asked her what the favour was, and she asked me if I needed a refresher on what personal meant. I said I was sorry, but she just waved it away, saying that she shouldn't have snapped because it was my job to ask questions, and she'd...well, she said she'd be disappointed in you, Mr. Palmer, if I hadn't pushed for more info.

Heh. That's Josie for you...

So then I reminded her that she'd told me the rain was partly because of her favour, and asked her if she knew what the other reason was.

"The other reason," she said, "is why I asked for that favour in the first place." Ms. Ortíz looked away from me then, watching the rain fall a few yards outside her bedroom window. And then she said—I wrote this down, because it seemed important but I knew I wouldn't remember it right—

[Papers rustle.]

She said, "Angels exist in all times at all times, but our experience of them only exists in and at this time. These angels, as we know them, only exist in our experience of them. Do you know what that means?"

I said that I didn't.

"It means that the angels remember what's going to happen as though it's already happened, because for them, it has. But the bonds I've made with them lock their awareness onto the here and now. These angels understand what the present is, and they have one. They exist in one. They're able to perceive the future as a changing thing. They're able," she said, finally turning her head to look at me again, "to change it themselves. Or at least they can move parts of it a little farther along."

[Silence.]

Are you still there, Mr. Palmer?

O-oh! Yes, Kareem, I'm here. [There's a quiet throat-clearing sound.] I am literally incapable of leaving right now, after all. [A weak chuckle.]

Oh. Right. Sorry, you were just really quiet for a second there.

Just a little caught up in your story, that's all. What happened next?

Well, I asked her how long she thought the rain would last, and she said she didn't know but that she figured it couldn't last much past nightfall. There wasn't anything more she could think of to add or that I could think of to ask, so I thanked her for the interview and left. Except, just before I did she...said something else. Um...she said, "Tell Cecil I'll be there next month. No matter what. I promise."

...Thank you, Kareem. [The voice is soft and oddly thick.] Be careful on the way back, okay? I'm getting reports that of the outskirts roads have washed out.

I'd make a joke about telling a Michigander about bad roads, but no one would get it.

What?

[A sigh.] Exactly. I'll be careful, sir. See you in a few. [A crackly beat of silence.] Er—back to you?

Thank you. Well, listeners, you heard it right from our own reporter on-scene: so long as we all stay indoors where it's safe, the caustic rain should prove to be no more than a temporary inconvenience. Crisis averted! We can all go home now.

[A distant roaring sound, and a nearby low cry of surprise.]

Oh, come on! We've already gone on longer, hours longer, than our regular weekday programming! We have the full facts of the story, there's nothing more to report—

[Groaned, in a tone of absolute exasperation:] Oh. My. Gawd.

Listeners, Station Management has once again left their office and come to hover, metaphorically and literally, outside the recording booth window. It appears they have decided threatening me produced unsatisfactory results and have therefore turned to bribery or perhaps, given my current state of torturous isolation, they are simply taunting me. Several of their many limbs are dangling packages of old-fashioned sweets in front of the window and no. No! I am being held against my will in my own workplace, by my own boss, who is using my imprisonment as leverage to force me to broadcast the most slapdash program I have ever put together, and I am fairly certain I'm doing it for no pay since I was supposed to have the day off! This is not a problem that can be solved with liquorice allsorts and artisanal root beer! This is a gross violation of the terms of my contract!

...I think? I don't actually know for sure because most of my contract is written in an alien script that hurts my head to look at for too long, except for when it doesn't and I understand it perfectly but only in abstract concepts and also I lose time and my mouth tastes funny when I regain full consciousness, but this doesn't seem like something I would have agreed to!

No, I don't want your hand-pulled saltwater taffy!

Look, there aren't any segments left! I've gotten no incoming reports for the news, I did a traffic report, I've run ads. I did the Science Corner yesterday, so that's out, and I read the Community Calendar last Saturday and I haven't been issued next week's yet. The oracle hasn't passed any horoscopes my way, I don't have any guests lined up, and I even did an editorial! I mean sure, I sort of retroactively decided rambling about my mildly-unpleasant morning at home constituted an editorial but no one cut me off so I assume that counts? There's literally nothing else for me to do! Even the weather's looking pretty self-explanatory today.

Oh, for—I don't care what the City Council's got you watching, you can't make your problems go away by handing out jelly babies! You know what? Fine! Fine, you want a weather report? Then listeners, let's go to the weather.

youtube dot com/watch?v=J6G0EuPAoKQ

We, ahem, got a few calls here at the station from a few listeners who felt today's weather was, as some put it, 'too artsy', or as others put it, 'cheating'. I apologise if you have been at all displeased with the quality of today's programming, but recommend you direct your complaints to the office of Station Management, whose control over today's broadcast was especially unrelenting.

Speaking of Station Management, they either gave up or got bored about three-quarters of the way through our previous segment and returned to their office, candy and soft drinks still clutched tightly in their many hand-analogues. A few minutes later, Kareem tentatively peered around the corner into the studio and asked me (with some trepidation) what I was doing.

"The weather report," I replied, in a stony, biting tone that made it sound like I had instead said, "Making a point". Language is a wonderfully flexible thing, once you've mastered the verbal yoga that comprises a successful career in radio.

By this point, the sun was setting, a reddish-orange glow filtering into the recording booth through its lone window to the outside world. I could see the colours growing warmer, and imagine the desert growing cooler, as the sun slipped slowly out of sight.

"Your sister called," Kareem said. "She said she'd hold dinner for you. Everyone's fine with waiting and hopes Management lets you out soon."

"She called the station, not my cell?" I asked, confused.

"She said you didn't want to talk to her right now," said Kareem. "And that she understood, and that everyone's glad you did eventually feel up to talking about everything that's happened."

Outside, as the light continued to warm and the air continued to cool, I noticed the rain slowing, and slowing, and soon—stopping. The glowing droplets hung in midair as the sun was finally swallowed by the horizon, and then, when it was well and truly dark, they winked out of sight, just a handful at a time, like a rolling blackout. According to reports, all traces of the mysterious liquid which fell from our skies have vanished, from the puddles in the streets to the moisture in the remaining non-carbonic earth to the multitude of glass receptacles full of collected samples in Carlos's lab—the scientists, it should be noted, were the only Night Vale residents to sound disappointed as they called in the news. And Kareem noticed that as the rain-that-was-not-rain vanished, so too did the glowing sigil on the recording booth door. Listeners, dear listeners: I am free.

'Freedom' is a loaded word, though it does not seem as though it should be. Freedom is something most of us have, something many of us take for granted, and something few of us ever really think about. It is, I have been told, considered a basic right throughout much of the world outside Night Vale.

There are many different types of freedom. There is freedom of movement, the type of freedom I have had most recently taken from me, that Hiram McDaniels lost during his long imprisonment, that Old Woman Josie has been deprived of in her time of infirmity. There is freedom of speech, something Kareem once mentioned in passing that the Daily Journal's Leann Hart and I had a good laugh over in a rare moment of journalistic camaraderie. There is freedom of love, which Carlos once softly confessed to me was few and far between in much of the wider world, where life is a little less fleeting and people have the time and energy to waste on regulating who may be attracted to whom.

Then there are the smaller types of freedom that cannot be taken from us. The freedoms we deny ourselves, out of self-restraint or fear or denial. The freedom to have just one more bite. The freedom to climb to a great height and look out on the world spread below you. [A soft, sad, self-mocking chuckle.] The freedom to share an open discourse with your family when you clearly have no trouble pouring your heart out into a microphone, broadcasting live to anyone who might choose to listen.

Today, Station Management trapped me, and that was wrong, not that I expect them to understand that given the incomprehensible moral values to which they subscribe. I told them I needed to be allowed to leave, because I did. I knew my needs, and they did not respect them, and I called them out on that—which did me no good, of course, but I don't think anyone would argue that I wasn't well within my rights. Earlier, though, I told Carlos that I needed to be alone. I told him I did not need to talk, and I was understandably angry when he didn't seem to respect that. But Carlos is not Station Management. Carlos is a kind and thoughtful person who has been an incredibly important part of my life for years now, and he did what kind and thoughtful people often do for their partners. He anticipated my needs, and in this case he understood those needs better than I did, trapped as I was by doubt and grief and self pity. He sought to meet my needs in a way that I, albeit unconsciously, was refusing to do, and at his invitation Abby and Janice and, yes, even Steve (in his own...unique way), sought to do the same. Sometimes, caring means intervening, even if intervention is at first unwelcome.

Listeners, I am humbled by what I have been reminded of today. That while each of us may know ourselves, we do not always see ourselves clearly. We are not unbiased when it comes to ourselves, we cannot be, and biased as we are, we are not always the best judges of what we need. The boundaries we set in place are important and deserving of respect, but the walls we so often build in the shadow of those boundaries can cut us off from the people around us just when we need them most. We can trap ourselves in prisons of our own making, and while only we can choose to leave those prisons, sometimes—often—we need others to help us in our escape. And though some of us also need time, or distance, to understand that, that's okay. It's okay, because anyone who knows us and loves us well enough to truly know what we need before we know it ourselves will see that need, too, and they will respect it.

For anyone concerned about tomorrow's show, I've just filled out the appropriate paperwork to have Kareem fill in for me tomorrow so that I can make up for lost time off and so he can continue to stretch his wings on-air, since he did so well reporting earlier. Kareem is very enthusiastic at the prospect and has already begun drawing up an outline for his first solo broadcast. And who knows? Maybe I'll pop in for a little bit tomorrow anyway, just as moral support. You can send me on one coffee run, Kareem. One.

Stay tuned for what will at first seem to be the oppressive presence of silence, but which you will eventually come to recognise as the glorious absence of an emotionally-exhausted radio host using the studio as his own personal confessional. But first, please allow that host to wish you all a heartfelt goodnight, Night Vale.

Goodnight.

Today's weather was Cecil Holding A Microphone To The Recording Booth Exterior Window For Two Solid Hours While Staring Down Station Management Because Nothing Even Matters Anymore.

Today's proverb: It never rains but it pours. It's not a consistent pour, either. We never ask it to tend bar anymore.

A/N: For the curious...

1) Alternate weather reports considered included The Rain Rain Rain (Came Down Down Down) and a couple of less on-the-nose candidates that I'll hold onto in case I ever write something like this again, but ultimately I decided this was funnier. It might not actually be funnier, but I chuckled to myself over it.

2) I wrote that The Wizard of Oz joke before reading It Devours!, read the aforementioned book, swore profusely, laughed, and then modified it slightly to be canon-compliant because only in this fandom is that actually a concern with pop-culture references. And speaking of the Wizard of Oz joke...

3) Just to clarify, the ad segment was not meant as a jab to those suffering from depression (or any mental illness) or to those who use medication to treat or ameliorate any such condition. There are only two things being made fun of in that segment: the notion of advertising prescription-only medication to the general public like we're all secretly pharmacologists or something, and the tendency of drug commercials to employ the same over-the-top visual cues, weird intermittent slo-mo, blandly inoffensive acoustic soundtrack, and nearly-unintelligible rapid-fire listing of side effects.

Anyhow. If you're the reviewin' kind, by all means, review away. Opinions and critiques both welcome, especially given this is the first time in a while that I've written in a style not my own. I know Cecil as I've written him is kind of all over the place, but that's actually mostly intentional, given the context...still, feedback is appreciated. And also I'm kind of a glutton for validation. Y'know.

In all sincerity, thank you for reading, and I do hope you found it worth your while!