"I don't know what's happening." Carlos said quietly into his cell phone. He didn't realize how much that had been weighing on him until it was out of his mouth. It felt freeing to finally say it out loud, like a confession. He had NO IDEA what was happening, he repeated to himself. NO IDEA.

Refocusing his studies on the temporal anomaly that was their little desert community had been some of his most terrifying research yet. What was most alarming was that the data was actually leading him towards a hypothesis – something most of his and the other scientist's data flatly refused to do. And of course, it was something huge, and terrifying and impossible. Time was slowing down in Night Vale. Which meant – what? Somehow the city was accelerating in relation to their observations, approaching the speed of light? Some type of obscene fluctuations in the mass of the town causing distortion in time? He'd called Cecil partially in a vain hope that he might already have some simple explanation for the distortion and partially because he was a bit panicked and Cecil's voice acted as a low-grade soporific, but the conversation had kind quickly devolved into Carlos recounting the details of his research methods, as if that would make it more understandable just how serious the problem was.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Carlos got the sinking feeling he always got when he realized he'd gone off on a tangent and lost his audience.

And then Cecil said: "Neat!"

Neat. Carlos had called Cecil in a flurry of panic and excitement, had babbled on about calculations and statistics that were honestly a bit tangential to the point, had told him that time was LITERALLY slowing down, and Cecil had thought it was neat.

Carlos had to swallow down the "I know right?!" that bubbled up in his throat.

It was neat. Panic inducing, and against the established laws of physics, but also – kinda neat.

But Carlos didn't say that. Instead, he cleared his throat, saying, "Cecil, I need you to get the word out on your radio show. See if anyone has noticed a massive time shift." And Cecil had animatedly agreed.

And now, here he was, taking apart clocks.

He'd opened up 4 so far. One he'd picked up at the Ralph's, one Alice had brought in from her apartment, one had been in the lab when he'd moved in, and one, most alarmingly, was his own wristwatch, which he'd received as a graduation gift from his mother when he completed his PHD, and which he was certain came from this plane of existence.

None of them contained anything even remotely resembling circuitry, or gears. Which, he supposed, meant it was a good thing he'd been collecting the last week's measurements with the waterclock.

Carlos gingerly unscrewed the back off of another clock, this one something he'd picked up from old woman Josie when he re-opened his investigations on time. It made a hissing noise as it came loose, and began to swell and ooze with some kind of gray substance. Grabbing a nearby pair of tongs, he pried the back off of it, only to find several small, white nubs that looked like under-developed teeth floating in the dark mass.

Carlos carefully put down the tongs, took off his gloves, and picked up his cell phone.

...

Carlos doesn't remember how he got here – here, in an over-sized booth at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner, watching the tiny lightning storms flash through the cumulus clouds that formed when the creamer hit his coffee. Waiting for Cecil.

Carlos knew he had met the man in the tan jacket. Everyone knew that – he'd heard his own terrified voice broadcasted over the radio, cowering in the front room of the lab and peeking out the window like a scared child. But knowing that he'd met the guy hadn't caused any sort of miraculous flashback that gave him any insight into what the hell had happened. It just made him feel kind of unsettled. Like there was something really important that he'd forgotten to do, and he could still feel it – shapeless, but insistent - itching at the back of his brain.

He had tried to remember – wracked his brain for a few hours, leveraging every memory recall technique in his arsenal from his days as an undergrad – but he'd been rewarded with an ugly headache and a violent nosebleed, so he'd given up on it.

What he didn't know was why on earth had he asked to meet Cecil in person? Like Cecil couldn't have TEXTED him the number of his contact at the mayor? Like he couldn't have just called him back to get it later?

Carlos wasn't proud to admit it, but he could wager a guess. He'd been scared. Scared and shaken up and desperate for the promise of a friendly face the next day to help him get through a night of reeling at the terrifying implications of his research, and of his forgotten but still unsettling visitor.

And now he'd given Cecil the wrong impression – another thing the whole town knew - and he was going to have to try to fix that, to let him down easy and – God, he wasn't good at this.

The door of the diner chimed, and Cecil walked in – elegant, poised – and calmly greeted him, keeping his voice in its low, rich radio timbre. He had practiced this; Carlos could tell. It was never hard to tell with Cecil.

Carlos stood up, reached out his hand formally for a handshake, and Cecil looked at it for a moment, confused, and then smiled, gripping it warmly.

They sat.

"Cecil," Carlos said, keeping his tone cold. "Thank you for meeting me. I need your help with a strictly professional problem."

Carlos watched as the word "professional" hit home, watched as the realization dawned, saw Cecil's face fall. He heard Cecil's little "oh" of disappointment, saw him look down quickly, then visibly rally himself, turning on a smile – and damn, but Carlos feels like a total asshole right now.

He wanted to say something comforting, but he knew he couldn't risk it.

"It's about the clocks, right?" Cecil asked, "You mentioned in your messages there was something going on with them?"

"Yes" Carlos said, "it's about the clocks. And…" and he suddenly felt that itching at the back of his mind return, felt it begin to take shape, completely derailing his train of thought and demanding his full attention. He blinked, then shut his eyes and focused, trying to wrap his mouth around the newly forming idea that suddenly struck him as really, really important.

"…and I also need to tell you about the subway," he found himself saying. He was not really sure where that came from.

"Subway?" Cecil said, glancing sideways quickly before leaning in. "Like – devour your own empty heart, Subway?"

"No like…like public transit." Carlos said. Cecil was frowning at him, his forehead furrowed in thought, and Carlos was frowning back. Carlos was sure this wasn't what he was supposed to be talking about. He was looking into time. He had about thirty open clocks dripping an unidentified grey substance onto his lab bench to back him up on that. Subways were in no way related. Only…the stinging sensation at the back of him mind said they were. He scratched at the back of his head absentmindedly. It didn't help, naturally.

Cecil tapped his chin thoughtfully. "We've never had a subway in Night Vale. Not that I'm not all for it, I mean – I think a subway would be a great idea…."

"Yes!" Carlos exclaimed, and his voice was a little too loud, and the rest of the diner hushed awkwardly for a moment. He sank lower in his seat, and waited for the regular chatter to resume before saying, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I…but yes. Subways." He rubbed at his temples. "And there's something else, Cecil, there's a ….a refrigerator, burning and…" his ears started to ring, and he pressed his palms into his eyes. "There's something crawling out…if I could just….I can almost…." he felt something warm dripping down his face, and this was NOT how this conversation was supposed to go, but if he could just REMEMBER…

"Oh – "Cecil said, sounding concerned, "Oh - dear – Carlos, don't do that." Carlos looked up. Cecil's hands were frozen in mid-air, as if he'd been reaching out to him and pulled up short at the last moment. He quickly folded them in his lap. "That's a pretty strong memory wipe, please don't fight against it. It won't do any good, and you don't want to risk hurting yourself." Carlos saw the blood dripping from his own nose onto his hands, and attempted to staunch it with one of the diner's cheap paper napkins. "Trust me, if there's a subliminal message that's been planted under it, it's best to just relax and let it take its course."

Subliminal messages? Carlos scowled. Is that what this was? Was that what the man in the tan jacket had wanted him for? It struck him as – particularly unsavory. Forgetting was one thing, but something had been planted, in his brain? He felt violated – that was his brain. He loved his brain!

But he was also bleeding. And to be fair, Cecil probably had more practical experience with this kind of thing than he did….so he, too, folded his hands in his lap, and took a deep breath. He relaxed into it, and allowed his mind to go blissfully blank. The stinging in the back of his mind subsided, melted into a warm glow, slipped into his throat.

"There's a flower in the desert" he heard himself say, as if from far away. "This is your second warning."

Cecil's eyes went wide.

"Yes," he said sadly, "Yes, I know."

Carlos stared at Cecil for a long moment, feeling the blissful relief of having a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders – like walking out of your last final exam and into the cold, sunny, liberating air of winter break – his mind peaceful, quiet. He took in Cecil's pale, wide eyes, his slightly parted lips, cataloging them objectively. Subliminal messaging, the thought vaguely, must do a number on your dopamine levels.

"Is that all of it?" Cecil asked softly.

And then, like a snap, Carlos came back to reality.

"Um….yeah. Seems like it." He shook his head. "I'm really sorry about that, I didn't realize..."

"Don't be." Cecil said, frowning. "It's not your fault. Although it's quite a rude way of sending messages, using other people's subconsciences. I should do an editorial reminder about it on the show…" he trailed off.

"That message." Carlos said, watching Cecil with some concern. He wouldn't meet his eye. "Did that – mean anything to you? It's just – I think I've heard it before somewhere….*"

"Well…not really, no." Cecil shrugged. "Sorry about that."

Carlos frowned. Eight months in Night Vale, six of which had been spent listening to that voice on the air, told him that Cecil was not telling him something. Plus Cecil was still decidedly not meeting his eye, fiddling with the paper napkin and seemingly attempting to fold it into a paper crane, which made it kind of obvious.

The silence dragged on uncomfortably.

What were they supposed to be talking about again?

Oh yeah.

"Look Cecil, I was hoping you could get me a contact at the Mayor's office? I really wanted to ask them about the clocks…"

"Oh! Sure, of course." Cecil said lightly, crumpling up the napkin, "Anything to aid the scientific community, right?"

Fifteen minutes later, Carlos was walking out of the diner with a list of instructions (of course there was a ritual instead of a phone number, Carlos didn't know why he'd expected anything different) and a unsettling feeling that, without meaning too, he'd just said both too much, and too little.

...

*He had. So had Cecil. So have you. Remember, listeners?