The Moonlite All-Nite Diner was busy as always, which is to say, not very busy at all. Patrons stared at their ordered fares before taking a reluctant bite out of the kind of food that only tasted good late at night. Above the static hum of minty neon lights, forks scraped against ceramic as citizens pushed around bits of pies both visible and invisible. A familiar voice floated from staticky speakers mounted to the foam ceiling, bringing news to bleary-eyed citizens who merely wanted to rest, dulcet tones lulling patrons into a hypnotic state as the Voice of Night Vale waxed poetic on the happenings of their little town.
In secluded booth in a corner of the retro diner, the Apache Tracker stared morosely out the window as he nursed a cup of black coffee. Noticing his lack of concentration, coffee began to crawl up his arm, black sludge dripping onto the faded tabletop with an acidic hiss as the creature opened its gaping maw to take a bite out of the weathered hand. Before its jaws clamped shut, the man picked it up by the scruff and placed it back into the cup before pouring a packet of sweetener into the sentient sludge, watching apathetically as the creature let out a high pitched squeal before dissolving into liquid form once more.
Across from him, the Man in a Tan Jacket placed his hands atop the deerskin suitcase. The Apache Tracker knew better than to look him in the eye; he would only end up forgetting any and all conversations held with his partner if he did. "That, I suppose, is one of the few drawbacks of having such a powerful partner," the Slavic-turned-Native American thought, taking a sip of the neutralized coffee. The deerskin suitcase hummed as its owner drummed his fingers against the cover.
Meanwhile, the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex loomed out of the darkness, its shadow threatening to swallow the small diner whole with its aura of fear and uncertainty. The faint silhouette of Teddy Williams could be seen through the barricaded glass doors, his hands tightly gripping a shotgun as he stood guard at lane five. The Apache Tracker let out a wavering sigh as he thought about the actions he would take the following day. He took off his apparently offensive headdress and fiddled with the tacky plastic feathers that adorned his head ever since he could remember. "Are you afraid of your fate?" the Man in the Tan Jacket asked, his voice reminiscent of the sound a broken record might make if played backwards at midnight under a blood moon. "It would not be unusual. Many mortals fear death."
"Am I afraid?" the Apache Tracker echoed, the Russian words rolling off his tongue with a familiarity that made his skin crawl. He wondered if losing his ability to speak English was just further proof he was never meant to fit in with the denizens of Night Vale. "No one has ever bothered to ask that of me. I wonder, am I afraid?" Knowing his fate since the day he was born had added a crushing weight to his shoulders, one he couldn't imagine living without. But at any point in his life did he fear this inevitable death? Had he ever wished someone would take this burden away from him?
In a bound papyrus booklet filled with glyphs and symbols, the Apache Tracker's life had been recorded and forgotten, hidden away in a pocket dimension until the moment he was borne unto the world and uttered his first shrill cry as the nurses left him out in the desert to die. Had it not been for prophecy, the eight-eyed child would not have survived on his own, his fluorescent green skin an attractive sight for the starving wild dogs that wandered the wastelands between Night Vale and Desert Bluffs. The Apache Tracker wondered if it would've been kinder to have died back then, unknowing of the weight his actions would have in relation to a friendly desert community and its Voice and its Heart.
His first memories were of reading the ancient tome, pages cracked and worn with age, alien knowledge allowing him to understand symbols that had been lost to time and understanding exactly what those glyphs meant in relation to his future. The shadowy figures he could barely see in his periphery whispered and watched the chubby toddler holding the tome recording his life as he grew in size and power, observing his wanderings but never intervening even during times of hardship. Perhaps they believed adversity would make him stronger; in the end, it only made him bitter.
He met the Man in the Tan Jacket when he was in his teens, although he wouldn't remember the encounter until much later in life when their paths crossed once more in the lonely little burg of Night Vale. The stranger with a forgettable face taught him ancient Indian magicks that would become invaluable to his survival in the years to come as he wandered the wastelands, searching for the place that would one day become his graveyard. The enigmatic being helped him develop his powers to the point where he could hide his true looks and blend in with his surroundings with a mere thought, becoming a forgettable person in the blink of an eye. He was also taught how to use the arcane magicks to track down anything on the current plane of existence and several planes beyond. Invaluable skills as they were, they were useless in the face of prophecy and fate.
The Apache Tracker thought long and hard about his life, trying to pinpoint a moment where he thought, "I refuse! This can't be my fate! I'll turn away from prophecy and carve my own path, and no one will be able to force me back!" The Man in the Tan Jacket stroked the cover of his briefcase as he waited for an answer, the numerous flies contained within buzzing loudly in the contained space. From the speakers drifted the words, "But I'm just saying, that Apache Tracker or whatever he likes being called…I mean, if you knew someone who was always affecting a derogatory accent or told racist jokes, you wouldn't be friends with them, right? So…who would hang around this guy? What a jerk!" as the Voice complained about the Tracker that would soon give his life to save the Voice's Heart, and the false Native American felt the first flickers of sadness in his heart as he thought about the thankless death he would experience, a brief moment of heroism only to be buried out in the desert along with his name.
Lovingly stroking the feathers on his headdress, the eight-eyed man finally found his answer in the memorized words written in an ancient tome lost to the sands of time and fate. "No," he said, "I am not afraid. I have walked hand-in-hand with fate since the day I was left in the desert to die. I will be forgotten, but my actions… they will save a town. The Voice cannot live without the Heart, and without my death there would be neither."
The Apache Tracker was never meant to fit in with the citizens of Night Vale, but that didn't mean he hadn't come to care for them. The Voice brought life into the otherwise empty existence many of the citizens had come to experience. The Native American knew that without the Voice, Night Vale would crumble to dust as its citizens simply stopped existing, popping out of the plane one by one as their memories of the Voice faded like cloth under the harsh sunlight.
He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't.
The Man in the Tan Jacket made a noise that sounded like a deer being disemboweled by a Boy Scout attempting to gain their Medieval Torture Badge. The Apache Tracker assumed it was laughter. "Oh… Fate loves to pick the braves ones doesn't she?" the forgettable man mused and the Apache Tracker didn't answer. He wasn't sure there was supposed to be one in the first place. The Man in the Tan Jacket stood to take his leave, placing his money in the water pitcher and turning it upside-down – the usual way to make payments. "Good luck tomorrow," he said, "and thanks for your help with Pamela. It'll go a long way. Trust me."
"I know it will," the Apache Tracker responded, but his partner was already gone and soon the Native American could barely remember the man had been with him at all. With a sigh, he took out a small piece of paper, picked his index finger, and wrote until the sun came up and Fate whispered sweet nothings into his ear as he slowly stood up and strode proudly from the diner for the last time, tacky feathers shining brightly against the sunlight as he walked towards the death that awaited him below lane five of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex.
"Carlos breathes and soon the Apache Tracker will not."
As he lay dying, skin glowing a ghastly green as his disguise hissed and melted away, the Apache Tracker listened to the rush of words coming through the speakers installed in the bowling alley. It made his heart fill with joy even as it seeped out onto well-worn floor, staining linoleum with radioactive purple sludge that smelt of burning rubber. The Heart was being treated by Teddy Williams and the tears the Voice shed could be heard by all the listeners standing riveted in the streets as they reveled in the joy of a continued existence. "Tell me nothing else, and still I will tell you: here is a good man. Here is a good man dying. Here it is, the end of a good man's life," said the Voice, and the Apache Tracker knew that the prophecy had been fulfilled. Finally his job was done.
He smiled.
"Ладно, ладно. Я знал, это случится. Ты можешь взять мою машину."
Edit 04-06-15: I added more of Cecil's dialogue, taken from The Mayor (Ep. 24) and One Year Later. The transcripts I used come from tumblr user cecilspeaks.
AN: According to the Welcome to Night Vale Wiki, the last line roughly translates to "Okay, okay. I knew this would happen. You can have my car." These are the last words said by the Apache Tracker in One Year Later.
This story has been floating around in my head for a while and I'm glad I was able to get it written out and posted. I had been thinking about the Apache Tracker and his selfless sacrifice and wondered, "Why would he give up his life for someone he doesn't even know?" and that's how this whole thing got started.
I hope you enjoyed it! If you feel so inclined, please leave a review on the way out. I'd really appreciate it.
-Dismay