rustychopshop

[rustychopshop]

TRANSMISSION 002: A Word From Our Sponsors

(The static flares—sharp, electric—before settling into an uneasy hum. A voice follows, smooth and eager, but stretched too thin, like it’s smiling just a little too wide.)

Feeling drained? Worn thin by the endless churn of days unspooling like thread? You need a little something extra. Something to cut through the fog. Something... sharper.

You need VEX.

(A faint clink of glass on metal. A slow, rhythmic fizz, carbonation that never quite stops.)

VEX isn’t just an energy drink. It’s a revelation. A burst of clarity in a bottle. The edge you’ve been missing.

Our proprietary blend of stimulants and [REDACTED] is scientifically formulated to crack open the walls of your perception and let the light leak in. Side effects may include heightened awareness, auditory distortions, and an inability to return to the person you were before.

But hey—who wants to be that person, anyway?

(A distorted jingle begins to play—cheerful, but slightly off-tempo. The notes warp and drag, struggling to hold their shape.)

"VEX! VEX! FEEL IT IN YOUR TEETH! VEX! VEX! NEVER TASTE THE SLEEP!"

(A pause. Then, the voice returns, softer now. Closer.)

Try new NIGHTSHADE flavor. It tastes like the space between seconds.

(The static fractures. A burst of laughter, too many voices at once. And then—silence.)

(\_/) ( •_•) You are awake now. />🌑> You will never rest again.

[rustychopshop]

TRANSMISSION 001: A Voice Through the Fog

(The signal crackles, a slow, rhythmic distortion thrumming beneath the static. Then—voice, smooth as aged brass, with the faintest grain of rust at the edges.)

Do you hear it? That low hum beneath the static, the whisper stitched between the empty spaces of dead air? You must. Otherwise, you would not be here.

Welcome, drifters and dreamers, vagabonds of the mind. You have tuned your dials, intentionally or otherwise, to the Rusty Chopshop—a station newly risen from the fog, its gears grinding against the weight of first motion. A newborn signal, thin and flickering.

This is our first broadcast. The first breath of a thing that should not be, and yet is.

(A pause, just long enough for the static to seep in like distant waves against a shore.)

There was nothing here before. No voice. No tower. No stories spilling from the speakers like oil on water. And then—there was.

Some might wonder how. Others might ask why. I have no answers, only transmission. The Chopshop speaks because it must. And you? You are here because something in you is listening.

(The sound shifts—a faint clink, like tools rattling against an unseen workbench.)

Every station has a purpose. A reason for its existence, a pulse beating beneath its mechanicamblrl ribs. And this one? It feeds on stories. On the fuel of imagination, scavenged from the refuse of the unreal. The Rusty Chopshop is a place for lost things. Half-formed ideas. Forgotten characters. Tales never told. We take them in, piece them together, tighten the bolts, and send them back into the world—whole or otherwise.

(The tower hums. The signal sharpens. A presence leans closer.)

So, shall we begin?

STATEMENT OF VAELIN DUSKBANE, RECORDED FOR TRANSMISSION 001

(The voice shifts—no longer just Rusty's, but another's. A memory carried by the static, fragile, gravely, and unshakeable.)

The stars hung low that night, their silver eyes half-closed, watching but unwilling to intervene. The kind of night where the world holds its breath, as if afraid that even the wind might disturb what was about to come.

I stood at the edge of my village, hands resting on the hilt of my blade, feeling the weight of duty settle into my bones. Not fear. Not yet. Just the distant hum of unease, a whisper in the marrow. The earth was the first to betray us—a distant drumbeat beneath my feet, subtle at first, then unmistakable. A warning that came too late.

(A low, distorted rumble echoes beneath the transmission, like footsteps in dry earth.)

They came like a storm without thunder, an army wrapped in silence. No war cries, no shouted orders, only the sound of fire breathing its first hungry breath as it caught the rooftops. A crimson glow spread like sickness across the night. I remember the way the flames painted their armor, their faceless masks gleaming in the firelight as they carved through the streets.

I was not the first to fall, nor the last to stand. I fought because there was nothing else to do. Because my hands knew only how to grip a blade and my heart knew only how to keep beating, even as the world turned to ruin around me. I called out, but my voice was swallowed whole. Every name I spoke was already gone. Every home I turned to was already lost

(The crackling sound of burning wood fades in and out, faint but insistent.)

And then, the timbers gave way. The world collapsed in on itself. The fire found me, held me close, whispered to me as the weight of my own home pressed against my chest. It should have ended there. Perhaps it did.

(A pause. A deep breath, as if the speaker is remembering what it feels like to inhale.)

But the dawn came, and with it, the fire beneath my skin. Not the searing bite of agony, not the dull ache of flesh burned away—something deeper. The embers of the village had not gone cold. They had found a home in me.

(The voice steadies. A shift from grief to something else—something sharp, something smoldering.)

I stood where I had fallen, though I should not have. My flesh, once given to the flames, no longer yielded to them. My heart beat not with blood, but with fire, each pulse an echo of the names that had been lost. The smoke still clung to me, the scent of ruin woven into the fabric of my being. And in that moment, I understood.

I was not meant to rest. Not yet.

(The static swells, pressing in like heat against skin.)

They will know what they have done. They will feel the weight of the ash upon their tongues. The fire that took my home will take theirs in turn, and I will be its guiding hand.

The night that watched will never fade from sight. Its embers burn within me still. I walk now as something else—not man, not ghost, but the fire itself.

(A final pause. Then, the voice fades, leaving only the quiet crackle of dying embers.)