Chapter Text
Pete woke up slowly, lifting his head from the steering wheel. His forehead throbbed in time to the persistent chime of the seat belt alarm. Heat waves shimmered on the edge of his vision as he put his car in park and surveyed his surroundings. The Arby’s and its parking lot were familiar—he almost could have been in Chicago, were it not for the desolate landscape stretching to the horizon. He would have been more comforted by the chain restaurant if he had any memory of falling asleep there with his car idling in neutral last night.
The AM radio crackled insistently while he tried to recall exactly how he got here. All he could remember was a green road sign with a picture of a winged insect. Pete tried to punch the power button of the radio so the static would stop, but it just got louder and louder until it resolved into a monotonous female voice reading out numbers. Every few seconds, chimes punctuated her words. Pete listened for a moment, but it only made his headache worse, so he pulled the key out of the ignition and threw his door open.
In the heat of the unrepentant sun, Pete stretched languidly, shirt riding up past his navel. Someone close-by wolf-whistled, and he stood straight, yanking his shirt down in a belated effort to preserve his modesty.
“I’m just messing with you, boy,” an orotund voice came from the other side of the car. Pete leaned over the hood and saw a stout elderly woman with dark skin and a shock of white, frizzy hair. She was holding a number of bulging grocery bags and seemed to have forgotten her shoes.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Pete answered charmingly.
The woman narrowed her eyes. “You’re new,” she remarked suspiciously, withered fingers clutching a little bit tighter onto the plastic handles of the grocery bags.
“I’m Pete Wentz,” he greeted, walking around the car and holding out a hand. “Let me carry something for you.”
Pete thought he was being awfully clever, coaxing this old lady into liking him by calling her ma’am, but she obviously disagreed. She stood up to her full height (which was not much height at all) and harrumphed.
“I may be an old woman but I am perfectly capable of carrying my groceries without shoes,” she insisted.
“Oh, shit,” he cursed in response. “I mean—I really didn’t mean to offend you, but I don’t know how I got here and I’m not sure where here even is and I don’t remember the last time I slept through the night and I honestly have no idea what I’m doing right now anyway.” Pete stopping his panicked babbling and stared at the ground firmly, chest heaving.
The old woman was silent for a moment before letting out a low chuckle. “Don’t worry, child, you’ll be alright,” she soothed. “You’re in Night Vale, I’m Old Woman Josie, and it doesn’t matter how you got here, because you’re here now. You ought to get yourself some lunch at Big Rico’s, and stay away from your car for a while. Your engine’s got a case of the bees.”
Pete smiled uncertainly. “What do you mean, ‘the bees’?”
Old Woman Josie tsked. “Just don’t open the hood for a couple of hours and you’ll be right as rain.” She appraised him with her piercing brown eyes. “I think you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
Pete watched her waddle away with surprising speed. He reached for the hood of his car curiously, but it was emitting a faint, ominous buzzing. He backed away slowly, grabbing his backpack out of the passenger side and locking his car. In front of him was the back of a sprawling, official-looking building. He surmised that someone there could direct him to Big Rico’s, or at least give him a map. He began walking along, savoring the midday heat on his neck and humming a vague melody. Once he got onto a proper sidewalk, there were a series of signs on lampposts and building and stuck into the grass, all saying things like “Big Rico’s Pizza this way” and “Nobody does a slice like Big Rico’s” and “You’re going the right way” and “Yes, these signs are for you, Pete.” He rubbed his eyes a couple of times but kept walking.
After a minute he noticed a rhythmic rustling coming from behind him. He turned and noticed a shoddily-constructed bush with paper leaves in the middle of the sidewalk behind him, barely covering a conspicuous figure. Pete faced forward and walked a little faster, cursing his short legs as the bush continued to follow him. Soon enough he reached Big Rico’s and entered hurriedly, safe from the creepy stalker bush.
The restaurant smelled delicious, but strangely like whipped frosting and cardamom. Pete inhaled deeply, brow furrowed in confusion, as he peered around, straining to see in the dim lighting. He spied an “order here” sign with a bored looking teenager underneath, and stepped forward. The bell on the door pealed, and to Pete’s dismay, the construction-paper bush had followed him in. He sighed and looked at the menu displayed above the cash register.
“I’ll have a large pepperoni slice and a cup of coffee, please,” he said after a brief moment of consideration. The teenage employee popped her gum, startling him into looking up at her glimmering, orange eyes.
“Is that all?” she intoned slowly, punctuating the question by popping her gum again. Pete nodded and reached for his wallet in his backpack, but she shook her head, orange hair wobbling in the candlelight.
“Newcomers get their first meal free,” she explained monotonously. “Pick a seat. Roberto will bring you your food.”
Pete followed her order, sitting in the first open booth he could find, and laid his head down on the table with a quiet groan, leaving his backpack around his shoulders.
“…and that’s why you teach your children how to properly hold a paring knife,” a lovely, familiar voice emanated from the speakers on the ceiling.
Pete smiled in relief, comforted by the one spectacular thing that brought him to this strange town. The bush of suspicious origins settled down next to his table with a rustle.
“That’s all I have for pumpkin carving today, listeners. Remember, making Jack-o’-lanterns in July will provide just as much protection as making them would at Halloween. That is to say, plenty of protection against any malevolent spirits, but very little protection against fate or destiny or disease or simple accidents or the inevitable bear uprising.”
With a pointed cough from his pet bush, Pete looked up and accepted a tray from a hulking, grey figure he assumed was Roberto. He inhaled the aroma of the coffee with a dreamy sigh, noticing a bowl of something wriggling on the tray that he hadn’t ordered. He took the bowl and set it on the floor, pushing it toward the stalker bush with a casual whistle. A gloved hand shot out and took it, and Pete heard a small “thanks.”
He ate his meal contentedly, slurping down the thick, syrupy coffee and munching happily on the perfectly greasy slice of pizza. All the while he listened to that perfect, smooth voice. Pete even pulled out his notebook once he had finished eating, pen flying across the paper, a mix between his own words and Patrick’s.
The figure behind the construction paper bush stood up and slid into the seat across from Pete’s. He lounged in the seat, wrinkling his short cape.
“Is that a ski mask?” Pete asked abruptly.
The figure snorted. “Balaclava,” he corrected with nasally voice. “Anyway, I’m Officer Sepulveda. I’m a member of the Sheriff’s Secret Police.”
Pete paused, scratching at his tattooed forearm. “Um, if it’s so secret, why did you tell me about it?”
Officer Sepulveda leaned forward menacingly. “You think you’re funny, don’t you? Talking back to a member of the Sheriff’s Secret Police is a criminal offense.”
Pete raised his hands, hoping to placate the officer. “Sorry about that, buddy. I’m new to town.”
“Well, duh,” he replied. “That’s why I’m here. Every visitor is given a tail for their first 24 hours in town. You know, in case they have questions or anything.”
“That’s pretty thoughtful,” Pete said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.
“Hell yeah, it is,” Officer Sepulveda shot back, adjusting his blow-dart chest belt. “Anyway, I’m here to let you know that writing utensils are banned from Night Vale. If you’re planning on staying in town for more than 72 hours, you’ll need to hand over everything. And please, don’t let any citizens get their hands on anything you’ve got. We’ve got order to maintain.”
Pete nodded appraisingly. “Seems fair.”
The officer stroked his leather-clad chin. “I, uh, also need to know a little about you. You know, for the reports and stuff. Like, what do you do for a living, why you’re here, that sort of thing.”
“I’m a musician,” Pete responded instantly. “I’m the frontman for this band called Arma Angelus. And I’m here because I’m running away from my life.”
Officer Sepulveda nodded slowly. “Makes sense. You should head over to Dark Owl Records, see if they have any of your stuff. You could sign posters or something.”
Pete shrugged. “Sounds cool. Anything else I need to know, Officer?”
“Dunno, man. But feel free to ask me any questions.” With that, he slid out of the booth and ducked behind his paper bush. Pete took a moment to process, breathing deeply and pinching himself just in case this was one of his many messed up dreams. It wasn’t.
“If you knew what the bluebirds sang at you,” Patrick was explaining on the air, “you would never have that fleeting, tempting urge to sing along with them. They say things like ‘You’re pretty confident if you think you can pull off that outfit’ and ‘Look at that high-waisted man, he’s got feminine hips.’ Bluebirds are assholes.”
Pete laughed out loud, earning a few pointed looks from other customers. He quieted, but the grin stayed on his face. He wanted to meet this Patrick, with his beautiful voice. He wanted to ask him to run away with him and probably marry him as well. Pete wanted that voice to himself. Not just the deep, confident one that talked about politics and pumpkin carving but also the shy, stuttering one that introduced himself, and the rich singing one as well. He could trust this voice, he thought to himself. It was kind of a terrifying feeling. He never trusted anyone with his words—he wouldn’t even let his ex-girlfriend look at anything he had written. But for some reason or another, Pete felt he could trust this voice with his words.
“A new man came into town today,” Patrick observed in a slow, curious tone. Pete looked up in alarm. “Who is he? What does he want from us? Why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful tattoos? He says he is a musician. Well…we have all been musicians at one point or another in our lives. But why now? Why here? And just what does he plan to do with all those lyrics he’s been writing in that green notebook of his?”
Pete stood up, gathering his notebook and shoving it into his backpack. He strode through the restaurant and out the door with urgency.
“Hey, wait up,” Officer Sepulveda insisted, paper bush disguise abandoned.
He whirled around. “I have to meet him,” Pete demanded. “His voice, it’s—I don’t know. I need it. I need him.”
Officer Sepulveda paused, seemingly surprised, although Pete couldn’t be sure because of his leather balaclava. “If you want to meet him, you’ll have to get his attention first.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Pete yelled in exasperation.
The officer grinned widely. “I have an idea.”