Chapter Text
Commission made by @DannelKat (Twitter)
Comic made by @nxrayyyhh (Twitter)
"Imitation is the sincerest form of television" Fred Allen
A dashing man stood in front of an antebellum mansion. He was holding some papers close to his chest, as if his whole existence depended on them. His eyes lingered on the vast garden, where the palette of colors shifted from pinkish to reddish, mostly owing to the Lagerstroemia. Beams of light danced like waves across his glasses, reflecting the vast alley of street lamps that led to the majestic house.
The starry sky was remarkably bright due to the lack of city pollution. He adjusted his glasses with his index finger and pulled a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit, embroidered with the initials "V.W."
As he walked, the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath his shoes was the only sound in the stillness. The night air was heavy with the sweet, slightly musky scent of the Lagerstroemia, a fragrance that seemed to follow him as he approached the looming front door.
A Packard 6 arrived as fast as lightning! The young man was caught by surprise. The car was parked recklessly; he couldn't help but smirk as the man opened his door.
"Hey Whittman, how are you doing?" he asked, at the same moment he was opening the passenger door for the lucky lady of the day.
"Sir... I'm fine, thank you."
"Whittman, any forecast?"
"Forecast?" he repeated, frowning.
"You're the weatherman, so do you think the heat will remain, like we're in a damn oven?" he asked with a chuckle.
The blonde lady in the fur coat gave a slight smile, and Whittman felt sure she wasn't mocking him. She locked her blue eyes onto his, tilting her head as she noticed their different colors; one a deep sea blue, the other a forest green. Whittman knew the effect he had on women, provided they didn't know him. He thought to himself, "Apparently Jim hasn't brainwashed her... yet."
"Very bright, sir. But if I may... rain is going to fall tonight, though the heat will definitely remain. It will be like the rain of fire from Dante’s Inferno."
"Was Dante on the curriculum in Maryland, or were you too busy scrubbing marble steps in Baltimore?"
"I'm not fond of crabs. When I’m fishing, I’m always aiming for bigger... fish." Vincent replied; tone cooled, even as the word "Prey" through out his mind.
"Jimmy, darling, how rude! Aren't you going to introduce me to your colleague ?"
"Colleague? He isn't my colleague. He’s only here with his team and his boss for the Wireless Exposition," Jim snapped.
Whittman stepped toward her and bowed slightly. "Madame, enchanté de faire votre connaissance. (Madam, it is a pleasure to meet you) My name is Vincent Whittman, and I am here to study the fascinating concept of broadcasting weather bulletins via radio to the boats in the Gulf," he said, kissing her hand.
She blushed and chuckled. Jim grumbled, placing a possessive hand on the lady’s arm to pull her away. "We have a schedule to keep, and I’m sure you have... instruments to calibrate, or whatever it is you people do."
A low, melodic chuckle drifted from the shadows, cutting through Jim’s irritation.
"Calibrating the future is a noble pursuit, don't you think, Jimmy ?"
A man stepped forward, just enough for the light of the porch to catch the edge of his sharp smile. He flicked the ash from his cigarette with a grace that made Jim look clumsy.
"Though I suspect Mr. Whittman is interested in more than just the wind. My apologies for the intrusion, my good fellows, but I found your conversation far too entertaining to ignore!"
Jim’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. "I don't remember asking for your input. Actually, I never require your input. Know your place, colored cur."
The man didn't flinch. His gaze remained fixed on Vincent, his eyes glinting with a dangerous curiosity.
"My apologies. I sometimes forget that some men prefer to remain in the dark... even when a storm is staring them in the face."
"Well, I'm sure, boy, you will be in good company with Mr. Whittman to entertain you then. After all, qui se ressemble s'assemble," (birds of a feather flock together) Jim snapped.
He marched toward the porch, his heavy steps forcing the lady in fur to stumble behind him, her high heels clicking unevenly on the pavement.
Vincent remained as static as if he had become one of the streetlamps. The mysterious man still wore a wild, fixed smile as he watched Jim rush toward the entrance of the antebellum mansion.
Vincent’s attention was entirely consumed by him. This man... he was something unexpected. The way they spoke to each other, he couldn't be a mere employee. Was he truly Jim’s colleague? Could it be? His skin was the color of rich, warm caramel, and his hair looked perfectly curly and soft. But it was the eyes that trapped him: a brownish gold that seemed to glow.
The man didn't just wear a suit; he wore a statement of power, a real work of art! He was clad in a deep crimson tailcoat, its silhouette sharp and elongated, echoing the predatory grace of his stance. The lapels and cuffs were not merely fabric, but canvases for intricate golden filigree, swirling patterns of embroidery that caught the dim light of the streetlamps like flickering embers.
Beneath the coat, he wore an ivory pinstriped waistcoat, cinched perfectly to his lean frame. A heavy gold watch chain draped elegantly across his middle, disappearing into a pocket with a promise of clockwork precision. His shirt was a stark, crisp white, held at the biceps by ebony silk armbands, while his cravat was pinned with a single, blood red garnet set in gold.
Even his accessories whispered of wealth and eccentricity. His spectacles were rimmed with delicate wire, finished with tiny golden pearls at the hinges. To Vincent’s eyes, he looked like a king of the airwaves, a man who had turned the very concept of a uniform into a masterpiece of Dandyism. And what about this sense of familiarity with his voice? In that instant, Vincent felt like a sailor trapped by the chant of a siren.
The silence stretched, thick with the scent of ozone and expensive tobacco. Alastor took another drag from his cigarette, the glow illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He turned fully toward Vincent, his smile widening just a fraction, revealing a hint of those perfectly straight, white teeth.
"Cigarette?" he proposed, with an elegant gesture of his hand.
Vincent remained mesmerized and, unconsciously, started blushing. He lowered his gaze from the man's face to the beautiful gold cigarette box and nodded to the offer.
"Young man, are you a smoker? Because I truly hope I am not tempting you to start such a bad habit."
"From time to time. On special occasions, I appreciate a smoke."
"James is a special occasion, for sure! Ha ha ha! The man is a walking mass of complexes. He likes to dress in the finery of a dandy and changes his lady as often as he changes his ties. Poor lady, I truly pity her. She deserves so much more, poor soul."
"Sir, I am not sure I would call Jim a special occasion. He is a character, that is for sure, but not an interesting one, I’m afraid."
Ashes fell onto one of the blueprints, and Vincent panicked. He frantically brushed them off, his heart hammering against his ribs; there was no way he would risk burning these precious documents. He dropped a knee into the gravel, cautiously sliding the papers back into his leather satchel.
The man watched him, his grin widening with genuine intrigue.
" Mais où sont passées mes manières ? " (But where have my manners gone ? ) he said suddenly, his tone dripping with theatrical charm.
Vincent looked up at him, startled, still kneeling with the cigarette balanced between his lips.
"What is your name, my good fellow?"
"Vincent Whittman, sir," he managed to say, his voice a bit breathless.
"Well, I am Al..."
"I know who you are, Sir," Vincent interrupted, then flushed at his own boldness. "I mean... that voice. You are, how do they say it? La star montante de la radio, Alastor."
Alastor’s eyes glinted like polished coins. He gestured toward the satchel. Alastor tilted his head, his smile remaining sharp as he watched Vincent secure his satchel. He had only caught a fleeting glimpse of the ink and geometric chaos on the pages, enough to know it wasn't a simple weather map, but not enough to grasp the madness behind it.
"You seem quite protective of your sketches, Mr. Whittman if they were the Holy Grail." Alastor remarked, his voice smooth as silk. "I must confess, my eyes are more accustomed to musical scores than... whatever mechanical riddles you are hiding in there."
Vincent stood up, dusting the gravel from his knee, his initial shyness momentarily eclipsed by his passion. He took a nervous drag of his cigarette and looked Alastor in the eye.
"It’s not a riddle, Sir. It’s the future" Vincent began, his voice gaining confidence. "You work with sound, with the invisible. But I... I want to capture the light. I’m working on a system using a Nipkow disk, a rotating platter with a spiral of apertures. It breaks an image into tiny points of light, which are then converted into electrical impulses by photoelectric cells."
He gestured vaguely toward the horizon. "Picture this Sir... In a few years, people won't just hear your voice in their living rooms. They will see you ! It’s a thirty lines scanning process for now, flickering and crude, but it’s a start.
"What intriguing gibberish, Mr. Whittman! I know my unique style for broadcasting delights a massive audience, but I am not quite sure the world is ready to see this face. On which planet are you living?" Alastor emphasized with a boisterous, almost hollow laugh.
"I didn't mean to sound ignorant or rude. I'm sorry if in any way I hurt you."
"Hurting ME? How precious!" Alastor chirped, though his eyes remained as sharp and cold as razors.
"You truly haven't been in the South for long, have you, darling? You look at me and you see 'the future'. But out there?" He gestured vaguely toward the brightly lit, rain slicked streets of the French Quarter.
"Out there, I am a voice. A disembodied soul. They love the tune, but they don't have to look at the musician's skin. Your invention would strip away the only veil that keeps them listening. You want to bring 'light' to the airwaves, but some of us, Mr. Whittman, survive much better in the shadows of the dial."
He leaned in closer, the gold pearls on his spectacles shimmering in the dim light. "Let’s call back James to ask his opinion about being seen publicly. I'm sure a man of his... complexion... would be ascending to heaven at the thought. But for a Creole man? Your 'vision' is a reckless daydream. I already go to great lengths to avoid having my picture taken," he added, brushing his sleeves with a flick of pure disdain
"'Daydreamer'... that fits me well, I suppose. Then I guess I am not your regular audience, Sir. Because I am not even the slightest bit disappointed to finally meet you in person," he replied, smiling brightly with his eyes closed.
He then offered his hand for a handshake. "Enchanté de vous rencontrer." (Nice to meet you) he added, a spark of genuine wonder brightening his unique eyes.
Alastor was caught by surprise at first, but then he adjusted one of his white gloves and accepted the handshake. "It seems so... Enchanté de vous rencontrer également (Nice to meet you too), Monsieur Whittman. Your French is not half bad for someone from Maryland."
"Comme-ci, comme-ça. (So-so/This way and that) I still need to practice, but I suppose this trip to New Orleans is the perfect place for it," he replied with a brief laugh.
"I am intrigued to see how this future you are holding will be received by the other participants and guests here. You’ve caught my attention upon our first meeting, Mr. Whittman. Not many people can claim such a prestige," he said, as he laid a hand on Vincent's shoulder.
The heavy, humid air finally snapped. A few fat, warm drops splashed onto the dusty cobblestones, followed quickly by a rhythmic patter against the leaves of the nearby oaks. Within seconds, the drizzle turned into a steady New Orleans downpour, turning the streetlamps into blurry halos of light. Vincent flinched, instinctively clutching his satchel to his chest to shield the blueprints from the moisture.
"The sky is finally speaking, it seems," Alastor remarked, tilting his head back slightly as if to welcome the deluge, his smile never wavering despite the rain beginning to bead on his crimson shoulders. "Shall we?" he added, inviting Vincent to walk toward the mansion.
Without another word, Alastor abandoned Vincent in front of the porch. He stepped off the main path and walked around the mansion, his boots disappearing into the damp, darkening grass. Vincent’s eyes widened as the realization hit him; of course, they couldn't pass through the same door. The invisible line of the South had been drawn between them once more, sharpened by the curtain of falling water.
Determined to break the heavy silence, Vincent dared to yell after him, "See you inside!"
There was no answer. Maybe Alastor hadn't heard him, or maybe it was too risky a gamble for him to acknowledge such a shout in the open air.
Vincent adjusted his glasses again and took a deep breath before knocking on the door a first time. Nobody came, but he guessed it was because of the muffled roar of the jazz music inside. He knocked a second, then a third time, with more strength. This time, a graceful black lady in a maid's uniform opened the door. She apologized profusely for not coming sooner, looking visibly anxious.
"Miss, you’ve come right on time, don't you worry," he replied with a reassuring smile.
She kept her eyes on her shoes but gave a little smile.
As Vincent stepped inside, the transition was violent. The cool, sharp scent of the rain was instantly replaced by a thick, sweltering haze of cigar smoke and expensive perfume. The heat of the mansion pressed against his damp skin, making his glasses fog up immediately.
He stood there for a second, blinded and breathless, listening to the frantic rhythm of a jazz band echoing from the ballroom. The air tasted of contraband bourbon and floor wax.
The maid reached out a trembling hand toward his satchel, but Vincent pulled it back instinctively, clutching the leather strap tighter.
"I'll keep the bag, thank you," he murmured, wiping his spectacles with a dry corner of his shirt. "But the coat... yes, please take it. It’s quite a deluge out there."
As he handed over his wet trench coat, he smoothed out his dark suit and straightened his tie. Even soaked to the bone, he carried an air of frantic ambition, looking less like a guest and more like a man about to conquer the room even though he was feeling strangely exposed in his shirtsleeves, like a solitary dreamer standing at the edge of a golden, roaring world that didn't yet know it was about to be captured on thirty lines scanning disks...
He stood for a moment in the grand foyer, his heterochromatic eyes; one a sharp, electric green and the other a deep, icy blue darting across the opulent decor. Without his coat, the heat of the mansion felt even more oppressive, and he could feel the humidity clinging to his skin. He caught his reflection in a tall, gold leafed mirror; he looked like a drowned rat, yet his wide, toothy grin reflected back at him with an unsettling confidence. He adjusted his glasses and ran a hand through his damp, dark hair, trying to mimic the effortless slickness of the men he saw in the distance.
From the ballroom, the brassy swell of a trumpet rose above the chatter, accompanied by the frantic, rhythmic tapping of feet dancing the Charleston. The air was a thick soup of expensive French perfumes, spilled bootleg gin, and the metallic tang of the storm still clinging to his skin.
He began to walk, his leather soles clicking against the polished marble. Every head turned. In a room full of stagnant old wealth, Vincent Whittman looked like a lightning bolt that had just crashed through the front door. He wasn't looking for a drink, nor was he looking for a dance. He was looking for the shadows, specifically, the one where a certain crimson clad radio host might be hiding.
Many of the guests turned toward him like moths attracted to a flame. Whispers began to ripple through the room, and Vincent saw, clear as day, the smug face of Jim standing proudly with a cigar clamped between his teeth. But Jim could go to hell for all Vincent cared in that moment; his only focus was Monsieur Ledoux, the owner of this grand estate.
The blueprints he carried were for Ledoux's eyes only, but securing a moment with the man would be no easy task. The famous Monsieur Ledoux was currently locked in conversation with Robert Sinclaire, a face Vincent recognized instantly.
As Vincent approached, dripping and clutching his satchel, Sinclaire’s eyes widened in a mix of surprise and professional annoyance. He cleared his throat, adjusting his lapels as if to create a barrier of respectability.
"Monsieur Ledoux," Sinclaire began, his tone polite but cautious. "This is Vincent Whittman. He is a Weather Correspondent by trade for our agency, though he spends far more time with his nose in blueprints than in the clouds. He writes our technical advertisements, explaining the 'magic' of the modern world to the masses."
Ledoux exhaled a long cloud of blue cigar smoke, his gaze shifting slowly from Sinclaire to Vincent. He didn't look impressed, merely curious about the wet, intense young man standing in his foyer.
"A weather man?" Ledoux remarked, his French accent thick and melodic. "Then you must have known you would arrive at my door looking like a drowned sailor, Monsieur Whittman."
Vincent didn't flinch. He wiped a stray drop of rain from his cheek, adjusted his glasses, and offered that wide, toothy grin.
"I should have checked my own column this morning, Monsieur Ledoux," he replied with a sharp glint in his eyes. "I might have brought a larger umbrella"
A faint, amused twitch appeared at the corner of Ledoux’s mouth. The young man had gall, that was certain.
That’s it! That’s your moment to shine, Vincent thought to himself. Like a seasoned fisherman, he felt the tug on the line; the fish had taken the bait, and now he just had to hold the rod tight.
"Monsieur Ledoux, have you perchance heard of this fascinating new concept called 'Radiovision'?" he dropped loudly, his voice cutting through the ambient jazz.
Standing in a shadowed corner with a glass of Sazerac in hand, Alastor couldn't help but smile at the word. To him, Mr. Whittman looked like a puppy wagging its tail, desperate for attention, not necessarily for himself, but for his concept, his grand vision.
While Alastor viewed the interaction it was as if time seemed to have ceased in that pivotal moment. Sinclaire's breath caught in his throat, head whipping between the faces of the three men to catch their reactions. While Jim seemed to be flustered by the overconfidence of Vincent, his face flickered between worry and panic almost as if he was praying to himself the question would fall flat like a soufflé.
"Radiovision? That is a mere fantasy for the readers of cheap pulp magazines, Monsieur."
Vincent felt his heart tighten. Alastor had expected this kind of answer; for most of the audience, this concept sounded like pure science fiction, as if it had crawled out of a Lovecraftian universe. Still, he waited for Mr. Whittman’s next move. Would he dare to counter-argue now, or would he back down, drowned by the cold indifference of the crowd around him?
Every breath Vincent took seemed to require a monumental amount of effort; he felt as though he was submerged deep beneath the depths of the water, his hand gripped his satchel tightly as if to ground himself. With trembling fingers, he found the clasp of his bag, snapped it open, and brandished a large metallic disk pierced by a sequence of holes forming a spiral.
As Vincent held the disk aloft, the golden light from the crystal chandeliers caught the wet, polished metal. The light didn't just reflect; it bled through the spiral of perforations, casting a constellation of bright needles across the room. Small orbs of light danced over the velvet curtains and the shocked faces of the elite. On Vincent’s own face, the projections traced a glowing arc, a mechanical stardust that seemed to link his mismatched eyes. For a heartbeat, the rain drenched foyer was transformed into a flickering theater of shadows and stars."
"Monsieur Ledoux, I can assure you: this is not science fiction, it is science. This is the mechanical, beating heart of the future. It is a Nipkow Disk, engineered in Berlin by Paul Gottlieb Nipkow himself! It has already been tested in London. So, my question to you is this: will America wake up, or will she remain in the dark while Europe leads the way? Will we stand by as the Old Continent stays at the 'forefront' of technology, medicine, and culture, or will we seize this opportunity to master it? This is a technological revolution, and every media outlet must take it seriously."
"How old are you?" Ledoux replied simply, his tone carrying the cool, detached weight of a man who measured worth in decades and bank accounts.
"Twenty-one, Sir. Why do you ask?"
Ledoux leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing. "So, you have only just won the right to vote, yet you already have a grey streak in your hair. You are quite the character, Monsieur Whittman."
Vincent felt a familiar tightening in his chest, but he didn't falter. He stood straighter, his hands clenching the leather of his satchel until his knuckles turned as white as the streak in his hair. He didn't look away; instead, he met Ledoux’s gaze with a burning intensity that seemed almost feverish for a man of his age.
"Monsieur Ledoux, I spent five years in the dust of newsrooms; Mr. Sinclaire can testify to that," Vincent began, his voice dropping an octave, becoming steady and resonant. "I started as a copyboy, but I know exactly where I am going. My vocation is my compass."
He stepped closer, the movement bold enough to make Ledoux stiffen ever so slightly. Vincent’s eyes—the blue and the green—seemed to glow with the fanaticism of a prophet. "If you would both agree to a private conversation, I promise to make it worth your time. I have blueprints to show you; I can provide a full demonstration. You do not want to miss this chance. Ink, paper, and radio may never become truly obsolete, but one day, information and entertainment will be brought directly into the home of every family."
He opened his hands now, a grand, sweeping gesture that took in the room but looked far beyond its walls. "Picture it: the cinema of the Lumière brothers right in your dining room while you share a meal with your loved ones. You wouldn't even have to leave the place we all cherish most. After all... isn't the home where the heart lies?"
Monsieur Ledoux toyed with his mustache, watching the boy fight so vividly, almost like a madman. He rhythmically tapped his cane against the marble floor before casting a glance toward Mr. Sinclaire. Everyone held their breath, waiting to see what the master of the house would say.
"IF and that is a BIG IF; I were to agree to such a conversation with Mr. Sinclaire and yourself, now is clearly neither the right moment nor the right place."
Robert Sinclaire looked at him and simply shook his head. No. The fight would have to wait for another day; a bitter irony, considering they were all gathered for the Wireless Exposition. But when you are a nobody, you must fight fiercely. Every day is a struggle to climb to the top, to be heard, seen, and respected. Fine. If the world was not ready for him, and if it would not give him what he needed, he would take it by force.
While grappling with his emotions, out of the corner of his eye, amidst the chatter of the elite and the clinking of crystal, it was the gleam of a single glass of amber liquid that to catch all the light in the room, pointed directly at him. On the other side of the glass being Alastor. Was it an invitation? Or merely a salute to a fellow player in a game only the two of them understood?
He was a solitary island in that sea of ivory faces; the only man of color who wasn't carrying a tray or opening a door. He had carved his place in this world through sheer brilliance and a voice that commanded the city. By raising his glass to Vincent, he wasn't just offering a drink; he was acknowledging a fellow transgressor.
Vincent’s entire body was failing him. After such a cruel rejection, he felt like throwing a tantrum, but he knew all too well that his ship would sink like the Titanic if he went that far. He noticed the radio host slip a small note beneath the fiery glass before mysteriously leaving his seat. Perhaps Alastor wanted to avoid casting an even worse light on Vincent by drinking with him publicly at the bar. Throughout it all, Alastor wore that mystical smile, like a Cheshire Cat lurking in the shadows.
He could hear nothing but the warm, frantic beating of his own heart against the cold echo of footsteps on the marble. He was mesmerized as the radio host passed by him, offering a very discreet wink before merging into another group of guests without a single backward glance. Vincent turned back toward the bar, which seemed to pulse with a strange greenish glow for a split second, clashing with the amber light of the offered drink. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, but the weird glow had vanished, leaving no trace behind.
He sat quietly at the bar, placed the small note on his lap, and unfolded it. The handwriting was refined and powerful, a sweeping, elegant cursive. The King of Radio certainly did not lack panache!
"I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches,
Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green."
W.W.
Beauregard Square
Wed. 3 pm
He opened his satchel once more and carefully tucked away the note from the radio host; it joined the rest of his treasures. Perhaps Ledoux and Sinclaire weren't the answers after all. To hell with them! A rebel visionary like himself was ready to sign a pact with an uncrowned sovereign of the airwaves.
His first encounter with a Sazerac was a singular experience; the liquid scorched his tongue and throat, but like a Phoenix, he would rise from the ashes. He drank deeply, indulging in the gift.
"Where do I sign?" was his final thought that fateful night.