"Equation" (Fanfic, Welcome to Night Vale)
Title: Equation
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale
Pairing: Carlos / Cecil (implied)
Rating: G
Warning: White appropriation of Native American culture.
Word Count: 648
Summary: Even in Night Vale, two plus two equals four (most of the time).
Author's Notes: Set within, and containing spoilers for, Episode 25, “One Year Later”
Carlos will die. He has collapsed completely, amid his tiny attackers in this miniature city beneath Lane 5. Soon the weapons will strike vital organs or arteries, and the monsters of Night Vale will have claimed yet another victim.
My heart is sick and sad as I stand with the witnesses to this amazing discovery and tragic ending (most are here for the birthday party). Carlos is more than the town’s only scientist; he is a true son of this land, a descendant of the People who dwelt here before the white-faces came. He is the truth, and I am the lie - a white man, wearing a child’s costume version of a Plains war-bonnet and longing to understand Indian magicks. He is dying, and I live untouched by the underground city people killing Carlos.
The Voice is weeping.
Even amid this latest horror, everyone in the bowling alley turns in disbelief to hear the piped-in radio broadcast over the PA system - every face showing dismay and terror at the broken tones and stammered words of our town’s only stability and cool guide. One of the inestimable interns has informed him, of course, Cassandra-like in perspicacity; he knows Carlos is soon to die, and the Voice who loves him is already lost in grief.
Carlos is more than a scientist, more than a true Native American. He is beloved by the Voice. And now the Voice is faltering, dying even as Carlos will die.
Even in this cursed town, two plus two equals four most of the time. This equation is equally simple: If Carlos is lost, then the Voice is lost; and if the Voice is lost, Night Vale is lost.
Something burns in my breast.
Am I a white child playing dress-up for Halloween, who only wants to explore Indian lore when it’s fun? Or will I become a warrior in real life, and die for my chief, my people, and my land?
I wish to shout a Lakota death-cry but only a Russian one escapes my lips as I leap into the pin-return in Lane 5. The bloodied Carlos is dazedly trying to cover his head as a toy V-formation of fighter jets center in on him, aiming for his heart. I haul Carlos up and over my shoulders, and turn to face my foes shouting a contemptuous insult (again in Russian) to the jets as the first missile pierces me and not Carlos. I stumble, grinning at the pain, and smash a dozen tiny buildings under my pleather moccasins as I flee to high ground. Agony sprouts in my chest and a plane veers off.
I cough blood as I reach Carlos up, and a dozen birthday-party attendees and Teddy Williams reach to haul him up and away from danger. The blood on him is frightening, but he’s breathing normally; nothing vital has been hit, and wounds can be bandaged. I smile and fall back into the war-zone, shouting that Teddy can have my car (I can only hope he learned Cyrillic as well as medicine in his prep for owning a bowling-alley).
Tanks fire into my shins and feet; more planes are deployed as I fall. These small city-dwellers are fierce warriors and very brave to take on a destructive giant in their midst; they will prove worthy opponents for Night Vale.
My blood is leaving me from a hundred wounds; terrible pain inside me - my lungs, my liver and stomach - lets me know that not all Teddy’s medical training can save me now.
But the bright, happy relief in the Voice over the PA is a balm to my death. Again the intern has informed and the Voice is strong and sure once again. Carlos is saved; the Voice is saved; Night Vale is saved.
I smile even as the thumbnail-sized bomb plummets toward my chest. Do zvedanya, Night Vale. Do zvedanya.
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale
Pairing: Carlos / Cecil (implied)
Rating: G
Warning: White appropriation of Native American culture.
Word Count: 648
Summary: Even in Night Vale, two plus two equals four (most of the time).
Author's Notes: Set within, and containing spoilers for, Episode 25, “One Year Later”
Carlos will die. He has collapsed completely, amid his tiny attackers in this miniature city beneath Lane 5. Soon the weapons will strike vital organs or arteries, and the monsters of Night Vale will have claimed yet another victim.
My heart is sick and sad as I stand with the witnesses to this amazing discovery and tragic ending (most are here for the birthday party). Carlos is more than the town’s only scientist; he is a true son of this land, a descendant of the People who dwelt here before the white-faces came. He is the truth, and I am the lie - a white man, wearing a child’s costume version of a Plains war-bonnet and longing to understand Indian magicks. He is dying, and I live untouched by the underground city people killing Carlos.
The Voice is weeping.
Even amid this latest horror, everyone in the bowling alley turns in disbelief to hear the piped-in radio broadcast over the PA system - every face showing dismay and terror at the broken tones and stammered words of our town’s only stability and cool guide. One of the inestimable interns has informed him, of course, Cassandra-like in perspicacity; he knows Carlos is soon to die, and the Voice who loves him is already lost in grief.
Carlos is more than a scientist, more than a true Native American. He is beloved by the Voice. And now the Voice is faltering, dying even as Carlos will die.
Even in this cursed town, two plus two equals four most of the time. This equation is equally simple: If Carlos is lost, then the Voice is lost; and if the Voice is lost, Night Vale is lost.
Something burns in my breast.
Am I a white child playing dress-up for Halloween, who only wants to explore Indian lore when it’s fun? Or will I become a warrior in real life, and die for my chief, my people, and my land?
I wish to shout a Lakota death-cry but only a Russian one escapes my lips as I leap into the pin-return in Lane 5. The bloodied Carlos is dazedly trying to cover his head as a toy V-formation of fighter jets center in on him, aiming for his heart. I haul Carlos up and over my shoulders, and turn to face my foes shouting a contemptuous insult (again in Russian) to the jets as the first missile pierces me and not Carlos. I stumble, grinning at the pain, and smash a dozen tiny buildings under my pleather moccasins as I flee to high ground. Agony sprouts in my chest and a plane veers off.
I cough blood as I reach Carlos up, and a dozen birthday-party attendees and Teddy Williams reach to haul him up and away from danger. The blood on him is frightening, but he’s breathing normally; nothing vital has been hit, and wounds can be bandaged. I smile and fall back into the war-zone, shouting that Teddy can have my car (I can only hope he learned Cyrillic as well as medicine in his prep for owning a bowling-alley).
Tanks fire into my shins and feet; more planes are deployed as I fall. These small city-dwellers are fierce warriors and very brave to take on a destructive giant in their midst; they will prove worthy opponents for Night Vale.
My blood is leaving me from a hundred wounds; terrible pain inside me - my lungs, my liver and stomach - lets me know that not all Teddy’s medical training can save me now.
But the bright, happy relief in the Voice over the PA is a balm to my death. Again the intern has informed and the Voice is strong and sure once again. Carlos is saved; the Voice is saved; Night Vale is saved.
I smile even as the thumbnail-sized bomb plummets toward my chest. Do zvedanya, Night Vale. Do zvedanya.