Chapter Text
Desert Bluffs is a strange town, Charles thought. Strange, but fascinating. So incredibly, painfully fascinating. It bleeds through his skull every time he thinks about it, sometimes literally. He had to invest in bandages to have on standby during his research. It was a tad difficult to find them here; the people of the Joyous Congregation seem to consider keeping wounds open and fresh as a sign of faith, though they were more than willing to procure scraps of cloth for him to use once he explained what he needed them for. He has been neglecting their use, though, as it’s much easier to get lost in his notes and studies, at least until he sees the crimson liquid crawling its way into his notebook’s pages.
Charles was endlessly glad that he decided to look into this town and its interesting religion. He loved thinking about it; the mystifying nature of it all. The obsession with bleeding, the grins plastered on faces, the strange focus on being productive and, of course, the Smiling God.
He frowns in frustration as he notices the time, realizing that he’s missed the first few hours of the daily radio broadcast. It is not much of a loss, as it isn’t exactly necessary for his studies, but the host’s voice is nice and sometimes he catches an intriguing snippet or two. And it’s very funny sometimes, that host is quite good at his job when he wants to be. What is his name? Charles vaguely remembers hearing it once, but the voice over the radio doesn’t seem to be very preoccupied with sharing details of himself, despite the fact that he seems to know almost everything about everyone in this town and frequently discloses that information over the airwaves.
The theologist adjusts his radio to the Community Radio’s frequency, which isn’t very difficult, as the little machine seems to almost guide itself to the right settings.
“-Once it was over, prompting many an outrage from certain- Oh! Hello there, I thought you weren’t listening in today, Charles! I got worried that you had left before your studies were complete- or that you had completed them early, which wouldn’t surprise me, you’re such a hard worker, you really should eat more often though- Anyway! I’m getting off track. As I was saying, the events of yesterday’s Bloodbath Faire have a few of the Congregation upset at the harvest sizes-”
Charles blinks a few times at the radio, not expecting to be called out like that. Of course, he knew that almost everyone in this painfully strange town has been named by that honey-sweet voice, but it was quite a strange feeling to be experiencing it. And to be praised, even somewhat? He finds himself giggling just a little bit, strangely giddy- the host thinks he’s a hard worker! Him ! The reminder to eat more goes right over his head as he clutches his notebook tighter, as if it were the physical manifestation of those wonderful lovely words spoken by that wonderful lovely voice.
He regains his senses, going back to his scribbled notes and smoothing out the pages that carry wrinkles from his previous tight grip. He finds himself wondering if he can schedule an interview with the host- for work reasons, of course. The people of Desert Bluffs seem to hail him as a prophet of sorts, so talking to him may prove wonderful for Charles’s studies. He isn’t sure how to contact the station, though, as their number, when spoken, is always replaced by various static, cut-off gasps and screams, and the steady dripping of either water or blood.
Charles picks up his phone, staring intently at it, as if willing it to call the number he wants. He half expected it to work, but it stays stubbornly silent, defying his will. “You are being frustrating,” he informs the device, hoping that maybe telling it so would make it reconsider. It did not. “Why don’t you have weird noises as a number option?” He debates if his technology is behind the times. The phone offers no input. “Damn you,” he tries. Now offended, it continues being unhelpful.
He gives up, releasing his phone back into his satchel and turning his attention to the radio again.
⋆⋅☼⋅⋆
Kevin’s gleeful smile stays plastered on his face despite his annoyance, though his furrowed brows betray him to anyone looking too closely. His co-host Lauren was, in fact, looking closely. Her expression was as solid as his own, each of them refusing to be anything but happy, a silent contest. Eventually, after a few seconds, Kevin pulls his vision away from the irritating presence, picking his script back up. As he opens his mouth, Lauren speaks first, grinning wider at his expression turning malicious. “I don’t think you need to mention individual listeners, Kevin. Unless you’re picking favorites?”
“I mention listeners all the time, Lauren.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know , but you never say ‘hi’ like that . Like you were expecting him. Picking favorites is against rule number sixteen of the StexCorp-approved radio host handbook.”
Kevin sighs. “So is having relations with coworkers, Lauren, but you don’t see me getting uppity with you about Daniel,” he chides. “In fact-”
She clears her throat suddenly, interrupting him. “Let’s get back to our intended topic , shall we?” She snatches the script from his hands, ‘accidentally’ scratching him with long nails in the process.
“Oh yes,” Kevin drawls, “Of course. You’re so right, Lauren.” His smile turns painfully pleasant, though his malice is still underlying and very visible.
“As always,” she retorts, grinning with the same loud satisfaction of a peacock. Kevin silently vows to leave his StrexPet’s cage open during his next bathroom break. “Now! What was that you were saying about the harvest, Kevin?”
“Well, because of someone insisting that I stay and work late, I wasn’t able to participate in the harvest until later, so-”
“Are you suggesting that you are integral to the process? That’s not very productive, Kevin, after all, there’s no ‘I’ in t-”
“ Smiling God , Lauren-”
⋆⋅☼⋅⋆
Charles stares at the radio as a faint growling sound gets louder and louder, turning into a whump , like someone being pushed to the ground. Snarling and ripping, glass breaking, and loud cracks can be heard from the small machine before thumping footsteps overlapped the rest of the noise.
“STOP THAT-” and then static. Shortly after, a pre-recorded message starts playing; Kevin advertising some kind of new StrexCorp product. Should he be concerned? Is this normal? Is Kevin okay? His mind decreases into slight panic, wondering if he’ll ever hear his voice again.
But then, the pre-recorded message cuts out, and the two radio hosts start talking as if nothing happened, no passive-aggressive tones or comments. Did he imagine the ordeal? Or maybe it was an audio error. He considers that they just made up, but neither of them seem at all bothered by what occurred, and he feels as though they’d at least apologize for the inconvenience; that’s what they usually do when something interrupts the broadcast.
His thoughts are interrupted by his stomach growling. Right, he hasn’t eaten yet today. He rips his focus away from the radio, getting up and walking to the kitchen.