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“Damn it!”
The teenager- child, not yet a man -shouted with venom at the steering wheel of the car he had chosen as his getaway vehicle. His form at the moment didn’t allow for hands, and so he opted to only press his chin into the grip of the wheel, the paper with his fate written on it crumpled all too innocently on the seat beside him.
“KING CITY,” it said, mocking.
“I know,” Josh replied to it, with a similar amount of acidity he used to berate the wheel. The paper, as it was a paper, didn’t reply. King City was the place to go if he wanted to find Troy. If he wanted to find what, Diane always reminded him, didn’t deserve the title of father.
Qualms around leaving had passed through his mind; weather he should write a note, or weather that would only get him in more trouble with the law, as pens were illegal. A migraine crawled up the back of his neck at the idea of jail time, settling right between his antennae.
Not too hasty, something muttered in the back of his mind, possibly Diane, his mother. Hopefully it was Troy, but all Josh picked up in the past weeks pointed towards it being his mother. Turn on the radio and calm down, another voice in his head planted on the floor below the migraine. Josh obeyed.
“The brown stone spire concluded with an elaborate interpretation of John Mackey’s Undertow with its many harmonious voices. Many of the reporters have still not moved from their places, worshipping the spire’s ideals. The others have shaken their comrades in an attempt to rouse them. And now, Traffic.” Cecil‘s familiar tones letting ataxia wash over him, even if it was only for a few minutes before he brought in Traffic.
“It’s your choice. It always has been. You’ve chosen when you’re a toaster and when you have several legs and antlers. This time is like any of the others. You and only you can make the decision whether to go on or to stay behind. Trust your instincts, or your mother. Nature or nurture. Whatever ends up being the idea you prefer, do not be harsh on yourself. As we all are, you are stumbling through life blindly, with no real understanding of where to go next. Do not be hard on yourself. This has been, Traffic. Ooo, listeners, I hope you like this next weather. Carlos, my boyfriend, said it would work wonderfully with the mood of the sky today…”
“Shut up, we know he’s perfect!” He shouts again, using his newly formed lobster claws to hit the wheel. The car lets out a dissatisfied whine, resentful?
Bottom line, Cecil was talking about Josh. Living in Night Vale, he had grown used to those sorts of intrusions from the secret police, those newscasters that really liked Diane, and Cecil, of course. Damn clairvoyants, messing up his day and confusing him.
Josh made his decision, whispering a secret into the keyhole to start the vehicle, the truth of what he was planning to do with the car before he slowly backs out of their driveway.
Just like Diane said, the voice said to him, of undefinable gender and age. This voice was foreign. Possibly it was him as an adult, or the adult he had inside his constantly warping form. Backing out of the driveway slowly, he made his way down the road slowly, trailing behind one of the blacked out agency cars that constantly patrolled the entirety of Night Vale.
Half of Josh’s work was completed, the getaway car. Now all he needed to do was figure out how he was going to get to King City, if it even was a real place. He drove slightly faster after the blacked out car before him slowed before turning.
“KING CITY,” the paper said, pressuring him.
Wings would be pretty cool, a voice said. His form obeyed, taking the wrong side.
“King City,” he muttered as he drove faster, suddenly struggling with the new addition to his body.
He stopped at the sign which shouted continuously, some sort of paste oozing from the ‘S’ and ‘O’, the entire word shifting from Wing Dings to Vladmir Script. The stop was a little short, and gave his seatbelt a sharp yank.
The leather wings clung around his wiry frame, blocking his view of the road still. As he started up, the screeching of wheels other than his own pierced the air. Josh’s eyes widened as he tried to bat his wings, another panicked screech ripping through the air, this time his own.
He and the other car hit. A blind panic overtook his understanding of how roads worked. As quickly as they had come, his wings vanished, replaced with an abundance of bioluminescent freckles and antlers. This time, his eyes were focused on the road, as large as saucers both literally and figuratively. Behind his car, he heard the second crash of whatever car he originally hit. Flames reflected in his mirrors took up more of his vision than they should.
Carlos the Scientist. He had those flamingos. The ones that had been reverting people back to childlike states or transporting them somewhere. It wasn’t clear where they were being sent, but somewhere was better than Night Vale. He had already broken two laws to get to King City, so why not three. Josh would steal and touch one of the flamingos once he had made it onto Route 101. King City was on his horizon.
A sob was choked, as the radio turned on all by itself for a moment. “This was your choice.”