Chapter Text
October 15, 2024 — 12:03AM
Bored as hell.
The campus administration, in all their infinite wisdom and crack in the head, decided to schedule Seniors Night earlier than last year's batch—fifth month of the year, no less. Predictably, the announcement thrilled the student body, myself included. Still, I couldn't help thinking that if it had been scheduled a little later, it might've hit with more emotional weight. You know, perfect for teary-eyed goodbyes and last-minute dramatic confessions under disco lights.
Just two weeks ago, I had a rather committed hobby of romanticizing the hell out of what was to come on Seniors Night.
Beautiful ladies in elegant evening gowns. Stiff tuxedos worn by boys trying to look suave. A long buffet table filled with food that looked like it belonged in a museum exhibit rather than anyone's stomach. Bougie catering. Blinding neon lights. Liquor-wine-whiskey hybrids. And of course, good music.
Good music and "Will you dance with me?" invitations.
Well. That last part stayed firmly lodged in the fantasy section of my brain. I'd been glued to my chair for almost thirty full minutes, babysitting three untouched glasses of Jim Beam Whiskey that my tablemates rejected in trade for a lover's sway in the crowd.
Meanwhile, I watched them with a masked expression of supportive anticipation. They were having the time of their lives on the dance floor, flailing and twirling like blissful maniacs. And I sat there, smiling at them, barely hiding the bubbling envy under my lipsticked grin.
Oh, they look so happy...
My butt was numb from all the sitting. So, I stood up— without thinking twice about the disaster my balance had become. I wobbled, cursed, then grabbed the edge of the circular table like a woman clinging to life. With all the grace of a derailed train, I began weaving through a sea of sweaty bodies, highly charged with love and serotonin.
You know what comforted me through this chaos? The title I've worked so hard to earn: Trost University’s beloved "Voice of Clarity" for news broadcasts. It was the one thing I could always count on to inflate my ego when life tried to deflate it. I wore that reputation like an expensive perfume, the kind you spray just once but everyone still talks about it for hours.
And tonight? Tonight, I felt an irresistible pull toward my favorite place on campus: oh, the radio booth.
My radio booth, station, and studio. Name it all. My presence is quite literally etched in every corner of that room. Every ant in this university has definitely been exposed to my voice, swarming masterly from all the speakers— all done because I was given the grand role to talk and stand up for factual news. Aloud.
I've been given access to it in my sophomore year after mesmerising the faculty with my rookie broadcaster skills. I ruled over the 8AM segments when everyone in the department avoided it from being written in their schedule. I worked my ass off to earn more than an 'average rookie' is capable of. I thought about my reputation constantly, like a mosquito feeding on the same person in Los Angeles, CA. Slept better because of it.
Pieck Finger, my roommate, once caught me smiling in my sleep and took a picture of it "for evidence" after the day of what I would call a 'promotion' for being selected as the University Radio Station's Co-moderator, perfectly between Professor Nile's and Yelena's position.
Accomplishing long-term goals does that to a person. I relish it the way a drooling pug dazes at a rotisserie chicken. Daily. Religiously. Obsessively.
Vocally-shared negativity from some onlookers is always an inevitable bump in the road of one's success. Cliché. They should honestly be reduced and treated like a small bump— not a sinkhole. Well, thinking about it now, I did happen to encounter some snide remarks echo across my years in the Communications department:
— "She's obsessed with her mediocre program."
— "Her voice makes me want to commit crimes at 8 in the morning."
— "She should try voicing cartoon characters."
Frankly speaking, I think they're all insufferable. But I've reached the level of pettiness where their words have been mixed into my ego's caffeine. Should I thank them for keeping me fiery on the road?
But enough with self-admiration. What was I doing again?
Ah, yes. The radio studio. My sanctuary. A warm, echo-proof hideout. Always humming with a kind of peace only I knew how to enjoy. Everyone else in the course? It was merely a room to accomplish the given 'public speaking chores' our Professor Nile drops in the group chat.
I stood in front of it now, marveling at how I even got here in one piece. Alcohol and envy were a deadly cocktail for my memory, earning the recall of a goldfish trapped in its five gallon tank.
I looked down and lifted the hem of my gown—battle scars. Scratches and bug bites decorated my legs. I must've taken a shortcut through thorny bushes like some desperate woodland drunk. That entire trek? A fleeting fog.
Fingers fumbling inside my purse, I found the keys—or rather, dropped them immediately. The keychain clinked against the floor, and I let out a defeated groan as I bent to retrieve it, leaning against the door for balance.
Somehow, miraculously, I unlocked the radio booth on the first try. Swiftly. I cackled softly at my own success, stumbled inside, and kicked the door shut behind me. The permanent scent of rubber wires, carpet, coffee, and papers filled my senses in a heartbeat.
The first sofa I saw became my crash site. I collapsed onto it, sighing like a woman freed from a prison of social expectations.
Then it hit me.
This was the night I'd been dreaming about for weeks.
So… why was I here?
I should've been out there, in that loud, overheated court, soaking in the chaotic bliss of drunk dancers, fallen banners, and plastic champagne flutes. I should've been sipping cocktails with Hitch and Pieck. I should've been taunting Historia just to piss Ymir off. I should be on that dance floor, spinning until I feel someone's hands on my waist, turning me to ask me—
Oh, no.
Instead, here I was. Holed up in the radio booth. Because reality couldn't keep up with the fantasy I'd built in my head.
Who knew that the campus-famous broadcaster would end up as a drunk, mindless woman, sweating in her stolen blazer, sulking in her career comfort zone like it was a five-star jail cell to come back to all over again, during a night where Seniors get to celebrate their asses off early in the year?
I didn't even get to see everyone's attire at all because... I was suffocating. I needed to do something else than just... watch.
With the swagger of a bloated man who'd just chugged the beer house out, I hopped off the couch, my knees falling on the carpeted floor with a soft thump. I basically crawled my way towards the swivel chair to lift myself up and take a seat in front of my babies.
Oh, my babies.
"Mmmh... I'm home... my sweet children..."
I slurred proudly with a groggy smug across my face, bending down to lean the side of my head against the cold surface of the level meter placed on this desk. My hand dangled to lazily reach down and press the power button on, activating the audio console. I listened as the gears began to vibrate in static.
Throwing myself back against this gorgeous seat I've owned for three years now, my glazed eyes turned to marvel at the glowing beam of monitors lined in front. I clapped my hands together in an attempt to test the echoes around the room. None. Isolated. Grinned in relief.
"Hmm... whaaaat do we have here....?"
My hand found its way on the microphone, fingers delicately wrapping around the long arm that held it upright in front of me, before I decided to lightly tap the windscreen. Frowning at the lack of sound it produced, I moved to steer the chair and reach for the "on-air" lever and increase the audio volume.
This is it. The perfect place to pour that emotional meltdown boiling within me. The bottled urge to make a waterfall of rants on love and failed Seniors Night expectations.
I thought of a headline to introduce; The betrayal of disco balls, and the found company in neglected cups of Jim Beam Whiskey.
"Nice... nice..."
The title sounded like it was pulled out of a rat's ass because of how terribly cheesy it is, but then again, I only managed to grasp half of my self-awareness in this state— now drowned down by the actively bubbling side effects of alcohol inside my system. I won't blame myself for finding it the funniest headline I've ever thought in weeks.
Another burst of unseriousness, before I fell into a quiet contemplative state. Back to facing my mic.
For a moment, I was still in my seat, reminiscing. This is the room where my hard work has been recognized throughout the campus; the sacred ground where I had taken on radio segments, public speaking practices, professionally crisp broadcasts where I flawlessly pronounced "bureaucracy" into the mic, and gave daily shout-outs to students under the request of the booth moderator to— at least— sprinkle some color upon the painful and exhausting days of the university students and staffs.
Radio segments have been an outlet for me to deliver occasional entertainment, and right now...
One more for the road.
I listened as the microphone began to register the small noises I made to check if the audio is successfully connected to the speakers around the campus. I solemnly decided to do some chirping noises for subtle sound checking to avoid violent reactions on the aggressive screams I now suppressed from pouring out. I had to restrain myself, even from just that.
Then, I'll let loose on the rest.
One button seemed to pull my attention in, with its bright and unfamiliar glow inside the clear plastic cover that protected it. The pulsing gleam seemed to blink up at me hypnotically.
"This...? Attractive..."
FX voice filter button. The button I never really touched before, since Hitch was the one who had the guts to play with it every December, imitating Santa Claus' vocabulary and persuasion directed to students to keep "doing good things and avoid being written in the naughty list". Seriously, who thought that such a ridiculously childish belief would still exist in college?
But I wasn't really looking on Santa Claus' button.
With a hand lifted by a ghost of recklessness, I began poking random buttons. Some of them glowed, some beeped in a pulse, while some produced angry microwave sounds. My fingers were restless, pushing tiny levers down then buckling them like a wild child, all while slurring words and cackling like I'm currently under the influence of a concerning substance I've inhaled earlier.
The system chirped, but I had zero clue on which active monitor it was at this point. I've been blindly punching buttons. How else will I keep track of them?
[VOICE MODIFIER: ENGAGED.]
[FX: SPONGEBOB]
Wow. Oops.
The computer voice monotonously uttered, to which I only cackled at. Leaning abruptly into the microphone, a concerning grin stretched across my lips as I wrapped my hand around the arm. It felt grounding and familiar underneath my touch.
"... Right... yes... must keep... identity hidden." I nodded sagely and murmured in a mimicked robotic tone with a manic grin.
With a distrustful burp bubbling in my hot throat, I tapped hastily around the windscreen, breaths blowing over it in quiet, foggy huffs.
I took time to inhale sharply, like a kindergarten teacher about to enter her chaos-doomed classroom of sticky Play-Dohs and splattered PVA glue, before stretching my strained arms out above my head, dramatically preparing myself for the unwanted podcast episode of a loner's meltdown and gibberish poems.
I huffed once more, then heard my voice crackle out the speakers. Hunching it'd be muffled down by the deafening music that boomed across the covered court where the party still went on in bliss, I continued carelessly.
The first words that came out of my mouth were vocally coherent, but mentally thought of involuntarily and mindlessly. I started off weak— taking on vague topics to start the episode.
But then, I knew I talked about something.
Something I won't entirely remember by the time I wake up in either this room, slumped on the carpeted floor, or in my dorm with my lovely roommate staring down at me in shame.
°
"This shitty song has been playing in a ten-minute loop now... holy shit... I'm so close to losing my mind..!" Shouted by someone in the rowdy crowd of jumping Seniors. Their faces are red and sweaty. The scenery looked like a stuffed club full of live sardines and broken alleyway wires. Only plausible sight of formality and decency among them is their attire.
It felt hot. Cramped.
The world kept turning.
No one noticed it yet.
After what felt like five minutes since the annoyed Senior complained that aloud, the music around the court began to fall down in volume— slowly. The crowd didn't stop swaying until it was completely quiet, besides the loud chatters and laughter.
It took a moment before one of them pointed out something; strangely pitched noises were ringing from the speakers outside the gym— out at the football field near the covered court where the party stood on.
"The hell's that noise?"
"Did the DJ chew on his mic or something?"
"No, wait— listen."
The whole place suddenly fell quiet, all ears piqued on the booming murmurs from the horns. With a burst of frustration from their evidently shared struggle in understanding the incoherent crackling mumbles, everyone gleefully pushed each other outside the hall.
Now gathered together in fresh midnight air, in the wide trimmed grass field, all eyes were raised on the white horn speakers attached to the tall light posts that surrounded them. The whole campus was silent for a moment, before a pitiful cough boomed from the sound system without a warning. Gasps echoed, a few 'thank God I wasn't just hearing things' swarming the place in relieved mutters.
Then, a trail of quickly delivered yet fairly coherent words started to crackle in heavy, stretched breaths. A recognizable voice filter was used— squeaky, high-pitched, and oddly comical.
It seems like... SpongeBob has been selected as their special guest in this year's Seniors Night, doing a casual podcast.
The anonymous speaker began to talk behind that ridiculous voice filter.
[SPEAKER]: "Seniors Night and the idea of dance breaks seems like... a ridiculous combo. What are we breakdancing for? Farewells?"
"—It should be.. fancier. Shouldn't it be called... I don't know... Masquerade... Waltz with your 'late night fights' buddy?"
"Holy shit, someone's drunk and upset." Someone huffed in strained amusement, before adding quietly, "who in the world gave them access to that studio?"
Ears perked, and in an instant, half of the crowd already had their phones out.
A trail of blurred, murmured words and noises echoed around the field from the subwoofers, before the mutter progressively grew comprehensible once more. A clashing wave of sighs reactively lingered across the ground.
[SPEAKER]: "Ridiculous as it sounds, I hate dancing. But, well, shouldn't we be expecting that activity on occasions like this? I'm... so bitter."
"Well, the thing is, I somehow fell into the hole of expectations— for someone to offer their hand to me, to dance, to— ... urgh..."
Giggles echoed from the crowd. This was turning out to be something...
Interesting.
From Y/N's distance, it felt like she was just speaking to herself alone, sharing loud thoughts into her mic like it's her personal therapist. The radio booth was quiet, but the football field outside was an active place of chuckles and constantly replied 'oohs'.
"Why the hell is SpongeBob doing a public confession over that damned mic...?"
Someone uttered in the crowd, turning heads.
It was Levi Ackerman who just questioned that aloud; the naturally deadpan-man known for his sharp tongue and striking reputation in the Dentistry department. He has been known as the man who decided to pick that program so he could still practice his hobby of cleaning on— well, in this case— the human teeth.
Somehow, his widely-recognized reason ended up being the reminder for all the students to take their oral hygiene seriously to avoid being appointed to him in the future.
Everyone simply nodded at his snarky comment, now partially embarrassed for the anonymous speaker who continued to roll their ranting.
[SPEAKER]: "Failed expectations can be painful sometimes. Like— like a disease. Yeah. A disease. You know what else is a disease?"
All attention was piqued.
[SPEAKER]: "LOVE. Love. A globally-inherited disease, falling on the line of beliefs that... you must find someone to take good care of you in the future—... devotion—... for— Urgh—"
The sound of bubbled burps buzzed from the speakers. Everyone could only hope that this anonymous speaker didn't just vomit over their monitors.
"SpongeBob's poetic. That's hidden. You do learn something new everyday." Someone commented in the crowd.
"This is the funniest skit I've ever heard in a while. Not even Molière could write this shit." Jean, known from the Fine Arts department as the Jeff Buckley reincarnated as a hopelessly romantic painter, burst out loud— earning questioning glares and agreeing scoffs.
[SPEAKER]: "You know that feeling when you're... trapped in a wide room filled with loud-ass lovebirds swaying like they haven't been arguing for the past weeks? Ooh, it's suffocating to think how many times they've forgiven each other— or maybe, how many times they've ignored each other's phone calls and silently directed edgy tweets to one another."
Murmurs waved through the crowd, overpowered by the commonly strained laughter in reply to the Speaker's remarks.
[SPEAKER]: "Jealousy is a disease, I know. Tell me I have it, and I'll most likely believe you. I—... probably do have it...? It's just that, I don't think I'd ever consider it as something that I do have. Just... Grurgh—"
"Can someone check up on them..."
"No. Nobody move."
"Just listen, dumbass."
"They're doing alright."
[SPEAKER]: "Oh, but love..."
Silence rolled in like a wave.
A few finger-tap sounds fogged the microphone's windscreen, huffing from the speakers, before a stretched silence covered the place.
Then, without a tinge of self-restraint in the Speaker's voice, the words hanging from their heartstrings finally uttered in a solemn tone:
[SPEAKER]: "Love is a disease, and I... I think I caught it from a Biochemistry major."