Tick, tick, tick, hears Carlos in his mind, and his already round eyes go wide behind their glasses: he knows this nightmare. A great clock ticks off seconds that pass by quickly at first but soon, inexorably, slow down. They will slow to a crawl, until Carlos can barely move his own body, can't react fast enough to avoid the painful death that comes to him. Am I even awake? he thinks desperately, glancing from the mirrors to the red stain on the floor, seeing the familiar light of Arby's flickering red against the writhing depths of the glass. Is this just another nightmare?
No, he thinks, coldly certain of it, I'm awake. This is real. If it were a dream, I wouldn't be missing my lab coat.
But Carlos does feel a familiar weight in his pocket. He reaches in, and pulls out a small black box. The feel of it is familiar in his hands, and for the moment, is comforting. With practiced ease, Carlos flicks a switch and pushes a button and begins to speak.
"Museum tape one. Local date: Impossible to determine." His voice is tremulous, terrified, but even as he shrinks away from the mirrors and the creature, Carlos does not stop speaking. "It has been five days now since I arrived. I am caught in a gladiatorial game: several dozen of us are trapped in a museum until we kill each other. The last one standing wins." His voice is low, urgent, and hurried -- Carlos wants to get all this out, get it recorded, before he dies. "I thought it wasn't like Night Vale at all, but I saw a hooded figure standing in the doorway to the IMAX theater, I'm certain of it, and the door to this room is secreting a viscous, bloodlike substance. Currently --" and here he pauses to dart to a corner, putting as much distance between himself and the red thing as possible while still keeping an eye on the mirrors -- "I am in a public restroom. The mirrors have all gone dark, and I can see shapes moving behind the glass. There is something on the floor above me, something large and heavy that is making the ceiling sink and the walls buckle. Unfortunately, between me and the door is a pool of the red liquid I mentioned before. There is some kind of creature emerging from it -- it's coated in the substance. Or the substance is its skin. I can't tell which, just that it's red and glistening, with long claws and moving like a crab, or a spider. Oh, god, it's in here with me."
A deep, shaky breath. It takes Carlos another moment to find his voice. "The cracks in the ceiling are getting wider. I don't know what's happening or what that thing is, but it's between me and the door. I'm trapped. I can't get out." The terror in Carlos's voice is gripping; it's a shame no one in the Capitol can see what he's seeing. "Mouse, Dr. Bashir, Dr. Zoidberg -- if any of you find this, do not go in the IMAX. If you see hooded figures anywhere else, do NOT look at them. And if the ceiling collapse hasn't sealed this room off already, make sure you do it yourselves. These things cannot get into the rest of the museum." A pause, and Carlos's brows knit, and his voice, when he speaks, is sad. "I hope you make it further than I did."
If I am still in Night Vale, or something like it, Carlos thinks, watching the red creature approach, I wonder if Cecil will report my death. I wonder how he'll feel about it. Carlos is afraid of many things. He is afraid of the creatures that come through dimensional rifts. He is afraid of the radiation leaks from Radon Canyon and of the earthquakes they keep recording but cannot feel. He is afraid of publishing papers only to realize that his conclusions are completely wrong. He is afraid of the unstoppable slowing of time. And he is afraid of Cecil Palmer.
Cecil Palmer, with his little community radio show. Cecil Palmer, with his willful ignorance of the world around him. Cecil Palmer, who talks about evisceration and municipal re-education and underground pulsars like there's not a problem with any of it. Cecil Palmer, with his ridiculous infatuation that somehow did not go away even after Carlos had been here for a year. Cecil Palmer, with his Oh? and his Go on? and his insistence on calling their business meetings "dates." Cecil Palmer, with his thoughts about the universe that perfectly capture the mystery of it all.
Cecil and his way with words.
Cecil Palmer, who wished death and insanity and sun blisters on someone just for cutting Carlos's hair. Cecil Palmer, who frightens children. Cecil Palmer, who has probably at some point killed someone and seen nothing wrong with it. Cecil Palmer, who absolutely, positively, cannot be trusted.
It's Cecil Carlos is thinking of, as the ceiling screams and the red thing emerges from the pit. I wonder what he'll say...?
why the hell are you apologizing jokes like this are 100% appropriate
No, he thinks, coldly certain of it, I'm awake. This is real. If it were a dream, I wouldn't be missing my lab coat.
But Carlos does feel a familiar weight in his pocket. He reaches in, and pulls out a small black box. The feel of it is familiar in his hands, and for the moment, is comforting. With practiced ease, Carlos flicks a switch and pushes a button and begins to speak.
"Museum tape one. Local date: Impossible to determine." His voice is tremulous, terrified, but even as he shrinks away from the mirrors and the creature, Carlos does not stop speaking. "It has been five days now since I arrived. I am caught in a gladiatorial game: several dozen of us are trapped in a museum until we kill each other. The last one standing wins." His voice is low, urgent, and hurried -- Carlos wants to get all this out, get it recorded, before he dies. "I thought it wasn't like Night Vale at all, but I saw a hooded figure standing in the doorway to the IMAX theater, I'm certain of it, and the door to this room is secreting a viscous, bloodlike substance. Currently --" and here he pauses to dart to a corner, putting as much distance between himself and the red thing as possible while still keeping an eye on the mirrors -- "I am in a public restroom. The mirrors have all gone dark, and I can see shapes moving behind the glass. There is something on the floor above me, something large and heavy that is making the ceiling sink and the walls buckle. Unfortunately, between me and the door is a pool of the red liquid I mentioned before. There is some kind of creature emerging from it -- it's coated in the substance. Or the substance is its skin. I can't tell which, just that it's red and glistening, with long claws and moving like a crab, or a spider. Oh, god, it's in here with me."
A deep, shaky breath. It takes Carlos another moment to find his voice. "The cracks in the ceiling are getting wider. I don't know what's happening or what that thing is, but it's between me and the door. I'm trapped. I can't get out." The terror in Carlos's voice is gripping; it's a shame no one in the Capitol can see what he's seeing. "Mouse, Dr. Bashir, Dr. Zoidberg -- if any of you find this, do not go in the IMAX. If you see hooded figures anywhere else, do NOT look at them. And if the ceiling collapse hasn't sealed this room off already, make sure you do it yourselves. These things cannot get into the rest of the museum." A pause, and Carlos's brows knit, and his voice, when he speaks, is sad. "I hope you make it further than I did."
If I am still in Night Vale, or something like it, Carlos thinks, watching the red creature approach, I wonder if Cecil will report my death. I wonder how he'll feel about it. Carlos is afraid of many things. He is afraid of the creatures that come through dimensional rifts. He is afraid of the radiation leaks from Radon Canyon and of the earthquakes they keep recording but cannot feel. He is afraid of publishing papers only to realize that his conclusions are completely wrong. He is afraid of the unstoppable slowing of time. And he is afraid of Cecil Palmer.
Cecil Palmer, with his little community radio show. Cecil Palmer, with his willful ignorance of the world around him. Cecil Palmer, who talks about evisceration and municipal re-education and underground pulsars like there's not a problem with any of it. Cecil Palmer, with his ridiculous infatuation that somehow did not go away even after Carlos had been here for a year. Cecil Palmer, with his Oh? and his Go on? and his insistence on calling their business meetings "dates." Cecil Palmer, with his thoughts about the universe that perfectly capture the mystery of it all.
Cecil and his way with words.
Cecil Palmer, who wished death and insanity and sun blisters on someone just for cutting Carlos's hair. Cecil Palmer, who frightens children. Cecil Palmer, who has probably at some point killed someone and seen nothing wrong with it. Cecil Palmer, who absolutely, positively, cannot be trusted.
It's Cecil Carlos is thinking of, as the ceiling screams and the red thing emerges from the pit. I wonder what he'll say...?