Welcome to Night Vale

by Journeyman

The Changeling in the Scrublands

The Changeling in the Scrublands

A soft wind blows through the empty streets, bringing with it the final cries of an empire lost to time. It bellows through the streets without reaching a single soul. No one is around to hear their lament, or no one is willing to bear such a burden...

Thank you for tuning in, dear listeners, and welcome to Night Vale.

To start things off, some corrections from past broadcasts. I know the last time you heard my lovely voice over the radio or beamed directly into your mind from the nearest government broadcast tower, I said my name was Cecil. That is not true, as my name, stated on my City Council-issued birth certificate clearly states—

Ahem... Sea Salt.

I received this fax from the Night Vale’s Secret Police that some bipedal creature broke into the radio station yesterday before the entire building was phased out of reality, likely the aforementioned Cecil. An unscheduled broadcast was issued by the unknown individual, along with all reports I had scheduled for that day.

Did you hear that? A man walked into the radio station, but he can’t have been a man. After all, the Secret Police assure me men do not exist. Humans do not exist. Who was this stranger, and what tales does he tell? Why was he here? Any individuals with information on this interloper are to report to the nearest Secret Police Mind Scan Station for mandatory reeducation in the Dark Box.

And now for the news. To start things off, the copy of Princess Celestia made entirely out of paper, the one Whisk invited in for some cupcakes, will now be hosting her own monthly bake sale next to the mysterious shape in town square. She hopes to raise enough money to take care of the vagrants that wander into Night Vale screaming about dark shapes hovering over our quaint little desert town. She is currently waiting on approval from the City Council. To give my own opinion on the matter: I applaud the paper princess' altruistic duties and encourage all citizens of Night Vale to participate in the bake sale. Someone save me a piece of rhubarb pie. What? I like it.

Hmmm... Normally I would reserve traffic for later in the broadcast if it becomes necessary, or at least until I have finished a fair portion of the local news, but I have just received a call from my lovely intern, Daisy Showers. Look, I don’t like to answer my phone or bring personal matters into the radio station once I turn on the microphone; I must keep some semblance of professionalism, but this is truly abysmal neighborly behavior. She saw a mysterious blue box that was impossible to look at or know about appear right in front of her, heralded by a thousand cries of unsaved souls. A chestnut-colored stallion exited the blue box, and Daisy commented that the insides were a non-Euclidean landscape that her mind refused to comprehend. Fillies and gentlecolts, I implore you. Find this criminal stallion before he commits further mischief. He has placed his blue box right in front of Honey Darling’s candy shop and is blocking traffic; the hooded ponies will soon begin their daily trek to the new dog park. I repeat, Mr. Chestnut Stallion: your mysterious blue box is blocking traffic.

The old dirt road leading into the barren, lifeless scrublands is backed up thirty minutes. When Night Vale residents exited their carriages to question the sheriff's secret police about the holdup, the stragglers were quickly escorted to plush, air conditioned prison transports for the time being. A changeling has been spotted in the scrublands. Now I don’t know about any of you, but I believe this bodes ill for Night Vale. We are all well aware of the recent assault on Canterlot Keep. The sheriff's secret police have dispersed information, along with their daily dispersal of mandatory behavioral control supplements, that Changelings are also capable of draining your loved ones of all life and hope, leaving them empty husks of their former selves that have been replaced by near-perfect replicas that loom over your sleeping form.

Now, I like to think of myself as an open-minded pony. My fabulous friend and confidante Mr. Beaker is himself a zebra has been a staple of Night Vale research, despite him not having any idea how he actually got to our berg in the first place. I like meeting new people, otherwise I wouldn’t have desired a job in radio in the first place. I love talking to listeners, both in person and through routine astral projections. I must admit a creature mentally enslaved to a hive mind does leave me concerned. What could a Changeling be doing here in Night Vale? Could it be simply lost? Did it stumble through the old oak door that opens to realms undreamed? No pony knows, dear listeners. If you have any information regarding this individual, leave a red carnation under the door mat and a secret police representative will be with you shortly. They are already in your house anyway.

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A recent shadowy group of government agents and professional dancers graced the town earlier this morning. While this itself is not unusual, they claimed they were here to purchase any and all anomalous artifacts that certainly do not exist, nor have been passed down through family lines for generations, carving blood-soaked swathes through history in an orgy of blood and violence. If you possess one of these affable and certainly not dangerous artifacts, and wish to make a few extra bits on the side, wrap it in black lace and place it within your family’s bloodstone circle. For those unsure if they are in possession of any such trinkets or baubles, or simply wish to get those that you have properly appraised, they have agreed to wait in Night Vale a few days, or until the screaming begins.

Night Vale’s Middle School would like to announce a change to their public gymnasium. One of the many criticisms of the gymnasium, besides the feral cat infestation, was the woeful lack of any real resources. Although many families and organizations would rent out the gym for various activities, such necessary items like tables, working lights, and a way out were sorely lacking. After recent repairs made after the latest flash flood, the School Board decided to upgrade their facilities as well. I was there myself this morning and I must say they have really outdone themselves. The floors are made of strong, polished oak wood that can withstand the hoofbeats of hundreds of ponies. The stands used to watch basketball and hoofball games, once large, fixed, steel constructs, are now made from eco-friendly recycled goods with padded seats. Even the new concession stands have record low arsenic content in their goods. I must say this certainly ranks up there with our new stadium. The new gym simply shines with the love and gratitude of its artisans. Although I must admit I did see those shadowy figures under the grandstands, but if you want to know my opinion, they will be so in awe themselves that they will hardly ever take any more of our children.

Hmmmm... I have received a public service announcement from the Night Vale’s secret police. Apparently, my fears were confirmed concerning the maliciousness of our new Changeling guest. I have received reports that the Changeling has broken into not only Caesar's Carriage, but the Night Vale Tourism Board’s archival department. Nothing of real value was taken except for locations of most of Caesar's carriages, and most road maps leading in, out, above, through, between, and under Night Vale. For shame, Changeling. For shame.

Listen, I don’t want this to go to a dark place. This is supposed to be your fun, daily broadcast filled with information and the love of this community. You speak through me, and my soothing voice is exuded by your radio and enters your ears. This is a special kind of symbiosis that I will love and cherish forever. But now we have an interloper among us, and he or she or it is disrupting our humble little town with theft, and staging break-ins unsanctioned by the sheriff’s secret police. I must say, I hoped that we could have gotten along with this creature.

Any information leading to the capture of this Changeling will earn you a stamp on your Aware Citizen card. If your neighbors are hiding this thief, report them immediately. Report all suspicious activity. Be vigilant. Be observant. But not too observant. Awareness is rewarded by boons from the secret police. Over awareness is rewarded by being erased from space time.

The new Bindi Botanica Spa has announced that they are including several new treatments. In addition to their new carcinogen-free deals on mud baths this week, they are including complimentary bath salts, free massages with package deals costing more than one hundred bits, preening sessions to remove those bothersome molting feathers, horn polish sessions, and a new frontal lobe electrotherapy that include thirty percent less memory loss. If you wish to sign up, better hurry; the lines are already forming.

Now there is one more thing of note before I bring you to the weather. Beaker has been talking my ear off all day about the clocks. Apparently Beaker claims that all clocks are some new type of venomous creature undocumented by science. I asked him like any other perfectly ordinary carbon-based equine with a pulse and four legs why does he think this? According to his machines and graphs, all clocks, watches, and sundials are alive and have been among us for many years. I don’t know about you, but the clocks in the radio station are just fine, and hardly ever stink of blood and mucus anymore. Beaker will be near the bottomless hole behind Honey’s Sweet Shop if you have any information to share.

As promised, I take you now calmly, carefully, peacefully... to the weather...

Welcome back...

Moments ago, a joint task force of the sheriff’s secret police and agents from an unknown but still nefarious government agency trapped and captured the rouge Changeling as it was running towards downtown Night Vale with a look best described by police as “stunned surprise.” After swiftly being taken into custody, the Changeling, surprising lucid and apparently--impossibly--disconnected from the Changeling hive mind, simply said it wanted to leave. When asked for a statement after being charged with breaking and entering and robbing, the Changeling, who resolutely remained nameless, had this to say:

“I never believed the hive’s stories. Stories. Just stories. All stories begin with a single grain of truth, however, and I guess this was no different. It was equal parts fear and legend, a warning for all. Why to never come to this accursed place. After the blast of love, the hive was overwhelmed. Disorientated. I wandered, not really knowing where I was or where I was going.

“I can’t feel the hive anymore... but I certainly felt it. Changeling’s are more attuned to emotions than any other creature, and now all I can feel is a great pulsing thing coming from deep beneath the earth. Pulsing. Moving. Writhing. Feeling. Searching. It has me now. I can feel it’s eyes on me, never ceasing, always watching. I tried to get away. Why...? I tried running, tried finding a way out, but all roads lead back to this town, this abomination of civilization. I can’t escape. I can’t see. I can’t feel. All I can do is here it coming closer. Beat... beat... beat... It’s coming closer...

“Please, for the love and mercy of any god you worship, please let me die rather than make me sit uselessly as it comes ever closer. Just let me die; I can’t bear it anymore...”

...

...

Well, that ended a normal night on a downer note.

I suppose this proves the literal example of never judge a book by its cover. I admit, I was wrong about this Changeling. I suspected little than a ruffian bent on trouble, and what I got was a well-spoken individual simply wishing to return home to the family it had lost. A simple casualty of war. Not just war, but the prejudices and errors made in everyday life. There are no winners in war, nor does it decide who is right.

I am not perfect, and I see that now. I made a mistake judging this Changeling based on its race alone, or the actions taken by maniacal feywild queens. We preach tolerance and love is good, but sometimes fail to recognize that what we perceive as good, can also be bad when looked at in a particularly different light. No truth is universal, except for the insignificance of every life on a small dustball rocketing through the endless void of unforgiving darkness. This has been a sobering lesson for me, and although it may mean little to my listeners, or the creature i have unintentionally wronged through my words and actions, I am sorry. Be safe, listeners. Be careful.

Goodnight, Night Vale.

Goodnight.

Comments

[Jlargent]

IT LIVES!

[vladspellbinder]

It irked me in the previous chapter and it irked me here so I have to say; the phrase is "vague, yet menacing, government agency". The word from the podcast is "menacing" not "nefarious".

Still, a good crossover and a good story, looking forward to more if it comes.